Welcome from Simon ! 👋

And then there was bland. She gave me a foot-hold Smiling up with a boot-print Stamped like a brand on her face. "Thank You," I screamed, politely as repeatedly I stamped; an irrational wish to extinguish her face. She smiled, I think, her lip hanging off. I cried, head in hands, as the gun went off. The gun is clean. The wallpaper is not. Simon Huggins, 1st December 2003

I bought some nail clippers for my cats' whiskers and trimmed them down to half-length. You should see them now, mewling pleas of "Help! The cat-flap shrank!" The poor little fluffs all lost and meandery. So I thank you God of Bored Inspiration. I smirk as the cats look imploringly as though sensing the loss inside of me. Simon Huggins, 1st December 2003

I am painting an I. I went armed with a template cut rectangular to the exact dimensions. I folded it up so small it fit into a pocket - Spray-can waiting up my sleeve, with rabbits. I am filled with joy. The sign remains. I carefully unfold my I and hold it in place as I hear the scamper of spray cans recede and mash a bloody "I" to make "TO I LET". Simon Huggins, 1st December 2003

I stapled a note to your arse. You didn't notice. A Post-It won't do. You see, this notice should be indelible - inedible to the sight, not large. You are a mountain range. On a damp dull day. You didn't feel it. Oh! How we laughed when, on a clean tiled floor, droplets formed and you thought your tampon had burst. Oh! How we laughed when you slipped and fell. Didn't bounce back. Went straight to fat hell. Simon Huggins, 1st December 2003

Trapped in this car with my tiny child. Screaming, "Where is my comfort; My Mother?" How do I explain, my poor dear child? I closed our vows in pique, not love; The crescendoed peak of a minute life. She loved cliffside rambles. So calm. So come, we honour those seaside clasps as I send you, windows closed, to the cusp and wave and kiss to the sum of shot love. Simon Huggins, 1st December 2003

I am counting the days to death. My stomach engorged on irrelevancies digests the bought, chocolate, and then the bread & butter of life: Thought. And thought connects me all; My protons and neutrons; ions and cells; DNA containers recycling. I consider: Is aging simply my body getting bored? Perhaps if each cell had a break from the norm; A holiday, intent focused on individuality; It would give us a better reason for living. When mind, head-untrapped visits the being. So it is now that I apologise, my body; My neglected sanctum. You were in fact not the structure. More the congregation. Perhaps the sermon should be on Unity? I stand briefly in the pulpit. What can I tell you? Each cell, strand, nucleus and beyond: Be Free. Simon Huggins, 27th October 2003

We go shopping for our souls Finding Kudos in a lampshade A Hero's welcome in the spills of the café. Give me a friend to bend their ear With consequential fears; Let tears not be the echoes of embarrassment. Strike Out! Rip Away! Go fall on your face. You need a few battle scars to realise this pain ain't going away. Drill a hole in your brain. With words and blame, send them away. And leave only your wife and maybe JK Sainsbury. You hate me. No wonder when all that's left is: A mixture of apathy, shopping and tea. I get a flea in my ear occasionally But maybe you or self-hate will finally go away And leave only me. And then tragedy. How will they cope, to others we're constancy. Constantly bored, separate, together and trashed. It's no way to live, squash our souls And go shopping for some meaning Deface the sanctity of what used to be. We're dead. Sick in the hearts and heads. So we shop and we hate and we drink champagne To celebrate this final hopeless fate. And part. My Euridice maybe I'll miss you, collecting clothes like flowers. I'll not look back, but you won't be following. I won't despair. Safe with Cheiros, you and The underworld unite. I won't know it yet. But sometimes, you'll find me, ear to earth. Simon Huggins, 2nd October 2003

"He is a true eclectic" Proudly preening parental techniques Return from Trial by School , But, "Boy. Why so glum?" He cannot help it. He just does it all. But only wants to play football - The type with a soccer ball He reminds his imported father before the smart-ass comment falls. Shame then that Cricket's the game. School Pride at your batting prowess. Not that today's Dad ever made the effort To say, "Is this your game, my son?" It must be, see him playing. Thwack! With every bat, See the leather hit the back of the net. College comes with new brain food. Brainlessly dished out to aimless students Of booze. You find you're good at that too. Who would have guessed your academic prowess Would yield pickled veins, a first And inane friends who say, "You could be The next great management guru some day." Do you continue playing these adopted games? And four years on, returning home To a father, the next tip-toed nationality. You wonder if there are pin-holes in the globe You wheeled round and round when you were four Until it parted. Rolled down the garden. Your father returned it. The world fixed once more. And playing dominoes on the floor He told you there was nothing you couldn't do If you wanted to. Sound advice from one who wanted the door. - Simon Huggins, September 2003

It is scuffed, well read But over this, my embarrassed thank you. Why do *you* do this? This book is loved, though not Masefield. At thirteen, this is what impassions me -- Not some clever wordful trickery. Deposited on a shelf. And then a pattern emerges: Borrowed a book from a teacher: gasses himself. Borrowed a book from a stranger: hangs himself. To leave me books and blame. And blame yellows on the shelf Fifteen years waiting, almost ebayed But that lingering guilt anchoring Until an interest sparks again. And now, Ashbery's verses fascinate Not least by the honour silently passed Holding poems so treasured, finally released A ghost of a stranger fulfilled. Simon Huggins, August 2003

I am a child. Impulsive and irrational. Constructing reasons when the deed is done. Adult rationale beleaguers me -- A limpid attempt to mask the stronger one. Where strength is a sorry list of failed attempts to curtail the child that wants then wants some more Until the wants become a white-noise hum -- this dissonant assembly sings of ploughing fields. And somewhere I am there. Waiting for my life Scattering seeds that barely germinate before the next field is sown. It soon becomes myriad self-propagating, care-worn dreams. I turn. Let every child now see the fragile me say no. The children scream. For months and months they scream. I am hoarse with silence. Weariness settles me. Then let one child have one small sweet As the van obscures the traffic to the right The car in front slows. I look still to the right. It's all right. The excited child in my head says. Tired, I accept. The car and I become one kicking can And skip and skip, we shunt her on like shredding cheese for kiddies lunch. Simon Huggins, 1st August 2003