Relax-o-Soil

I bought a new bag
Of relax-o-soil
I went into the woods
I poured half the bag
Into an open grave

I got in

My wife
Helpfully
Poured over the other half
Until I was part of the ground

I didn't like it

I couldn't get comfortable
I tossed
Turned
The soil moving around me
Unsure of the expectations placed upon it.

And then
A cold hand grabbed me
I screamed
It pulled
I screamed harder
It pulled harder
Panic
Soil filled my nostrils
The hand won the battle
It was my wife's hand
Pulling me from the earth.

I knew that.

Chip Pan Fire

I started a chip pan fire
Not on purpose
I wanted chips
But I did it wrong
The threatening flames
Mocked my attempt

I placed an advert
In the Leicester Mercury
"For sale: Chip Pan Fire
Would ideally suit Fire Brigade"

Nobody answered.

I ran away.
My legs followed me.
I ran
And ran
And ran
With burning lead in my heart
And legs falling towards the concrete
I eventually reached the West coast of Britain
And set sail for America
Using my cagoul as a boat
And ears as oars.

I reached the New England shore
Where many surfers, bathers, wanna-be nudists and life-guards
Were laid out like debris.
I thanked them for their concern
Tucked my moist legs into my abdomen
And rolled my sphere
Across the landscape.

I raced, I sped, I plummetted down hill
And across astronomical flats
Through metric towns I burst
Flattening meat in my path
Through car showroom
And garage forecourt
Until I reached the sea
Until I met the Sunshine State.

Then
Across the Pacific
Across the Russian tundra
Racing orb
Into Northern Europe
And back across the North Sea

When I arrived back at my luxury flat
The fire had died down
Someone had stolen the chip pan fire
And left a five pound note.
The bloody cheek.

Worraloada Thompson

The hand!

The cheese!

The cheese! The hand! The cheese! The hand!

The HAND!!! (The cheese)

And thoughts of a childhood

Separation of glowing orbs, aged three.

Your orbit perturbed at a vital juncture.

Dark satanic cloth descended

Covered eyes,

Only mouth can see.

Feeling your way through the streets with only your lips.

The tongue extended to feel the kerbs and flesh of strangers.

The face disfigured by sporting misadventure, Self-image now cottage cheese.

Let's make food! Let's make food!

Ride the tsunami of amazement.

And now your restaurants are all closed.

The cloth descends.

The mouth! The mouth! The mouth!

Let's steal food. Let's STEAL food.

The hand! It grips the cheese! Holds aloft! The war is won! The CHEESE!

And yet...  ....the hammer crashes down.

The eyes could not see it coming.