Burp Reynolds.

I drank some water just now in bed,

I was landscape. 

As the water rushed into my stomach it displaced a big burp. 

It bubbled through the water I slurped.

I felt like a bong. 

man like Big Ben. 

I giggled at the karma implications,

After all my many inhalations. 

One came back to bite me. 

But after so many rips,

One or two nips are only going to change my k/d ratio slightly. 

It’s only right, we give thank for this bizarre experience. 

Thank you, middle of the night. 

These soft hours that host jolly japes. 

That let my brain stretch, explore. 

This is what life is about. 

Those slender moments where I actually exist are bliss. 

That’s what I’m still in this for. 

Trek trendy voice.

Ask me to decide which day of our half-decade was the most important. 

I’ll say today. 

Ask me what I’ll say tomorrow. 

I’ll say the same. 

God rest ye merry gentlemen

I was hoping to do sweet f.a. this charmless period,

I will be harmlessly armless until January,

Smoking bare xmas trees. 

I thought a quarter ought to motivate me. 

Automotive ain’t me. 
I’ve been chuffing nimbus. 
a volcanic eruption, this crimbus. 
Sans Santa, sans tree. 
Human race, go on without me. 
I’m resting, not restive. 
Festering, not festive. 
I want to enjoy the freedom I’ve been blessed with. 
Pack my shit, leave the planet. 
So for the love of the baby jesus, can I just get situated, before I’m orchestrated into some creepy gay shit, fucking Janet?

Zookeeper Alex?

I feel like I’m in a zoo, I’m the only visitor, and I am all the animals. I stop at an enclosure labelled-

“Work Alex a.k.a Alexander roboticus- Dwells in office spaces, only eats ham and cheese sandwiches. His friendly nature makes him different from other Alex’s, only being slightly less social than Cruise Alex (Alexander nautilus).Work Alex can be identified by his distinctive appearance, including the rarely seen buttoned shirt and shoes that are used for camouflage.”

I look up to see work Alex in his enclosure, this one had the blue shirt. He was sat at the fake hq hub set up to replicate his natural environment, and he was going through a big box of returned kit. There was a zookeeper Alex (fuck knows where they got him) pointing a gun at his head, and another gun at his own head, sickened by his own abandonment of the zookeeper oath… 
…He was a work Alex too, They all are. I’m the only visitor, just coming to visit the poor things, day after day. It’s my duty, it’s a bit like a job. … oh no. 

Dead man’s switch.

I feel like I’ve let go,

let go of the the fear. 

Years of it. 

The version of you in my head has let go of the red button,

the one that when pressed detonates our relationship. 

My world. 

Everyone I’ve ever known,

Every soul to know me as a whole. 

All the people who love me, completely. 

Gone, obliterated, a black hole.

It’s been so lonely, but safe. 

Worlds smallest planet, floating in space. 

Crashed into another one and doubled its size. 

There’s so much more at stake. 

So much to lose. 

The red button within your reach, ready to let go of the cosmic union. 

But I’m not scared you will do that anymore, because I’ve pushed my own red button,

Our relationship ends over my dead body. 

Turn of the century.

I remember being baffled as a kid, that people born in a different century might still be alive. 

Not really taking into consideration how close to the end of a century that birth might have occurred. 

Then again, I am also a late-last-century birth. 

I wonder if I will grow to be unfathomably old, an object of interest. 

I wonder what questions I’ll be pestered with. 

Do you remember the war?

The rise of fascism?

The horror?

A peculiarity of time, it’s cyclical. 

See, those are the same questions we asked our old guy. 

Same questions, same problems. 

Seen it all before.

Round and around. 

Same ham joint in the background of scooby doo, same wedge of cheese. 

Turn of the century,

360 degrees. 

Quarterly report

All the fours gather, and get in lather, about who has the best skin, how gay. 

A patriotic display, in a shit way. 

Not the 4th of July, just July the 4th.

For centuries, the white cliffs of Dover have stood sentry, barring the entrance of barbarous migrants a plenty. 

So true, yeah, stopped the Vikings, and the Norman’s. 

More than you can count. 

So yeah go on lads, stick these red crosses about, paint the white cliffs, the pale English gentry. 

Paint a big massive red cross, tell them dirty bastards that they are denied fucking entry!

All your problems gone. 

That’s all it took. 

Poof!

Holding so tight onto your whiteness, get a fucking grip. 

England is England, so if you live here-you’re English, regardless of whether you took a dinghy trip, or just happened to have slipped out of your mothers dingy minge, exactly in the place you wanted to live.

Lucky you. 

Now imagine, you were born in a war. 

Maybe it was caused by the place you wished you were born. 

You’d risk your life to get here too,

only to be met by you. 

What a shit welcome. 

I for one am ashamed. 

Seeing those hateful flutters make me rage and sputter until I am red and cross, then the irony of that sets me off. 

I’m hoping for a future where every colour can take pride in that flag.

A rainbow, how gay. 

My hope is having to stretch a bit further these days. 

Velocity animosity.

I miss when the choice slider went from 1 to 2,

piss or poo.

Couldn’t pick a higher number even if you wanted to. 

Now, I’m spoiled for choice. 

But not by choice. 

It’s foisted,

The billions of voices crying for choice, rejoice!

Not me though. 

I miss when everything was less fast, more slow.

It makes my brain carbonated. 

The other day Abbie overtook me, on the walk to the settee. 

How am I being raced to a chill-out?

Like there’s a fire on the sofa only my ass can extinguish, 

Distinguishingly relinquishing some act of youthful delinquency. 

She’s as bonkers as hammers. 

But, she moves faster than me. 

Most people do, racing around, always on the go. 

But, she didn’t push me, I wasn’t cursed.  

When the rest of the world insists I move fast,

she let me be slow.

What a privilege to be allowed to come last. 

She’s always putting me first. 

Small.

i’m so big, all of the time. 

i’d love to shapeshift.

not to save people or fight crime,

or anything major really,

just minor stuff. 

i’d fit perfectly into cars,

i’d buy nicer shoes;

for my dainty size 11 feet. 

eat what i want. 

find a nice little draw in which to sleep. 

keep myself to myself. 

the little things. 

I ain’t made of sugar.

I feel calmer.

Far from harm or, bitchy karma. 

A farmer, outstanding in his field. 

Proud of all these crops, 

That came out of my land!

Pulled from the earth with my hands. 

There’s this niggle though,

giggling in the background,

Sewing a seed of doubt. 

‘You’d better make hay while the suns out!’

But for how long?

Is this my magnum opus?

My best yield?

Is it going to piss it down?

I don’t see the storm clouds anymore. 

So, has it passed me by, or am I in the eye?

Oh well, what’s another downpour.