Welcome from Simon ! 👋

Small children, in mud ankle-deep A dramatic scene, a caravan, I blink the scene gone. This bus trundles onwards to work, whilst memory clouds, quietly condensation quits the roll air-con makes us comfort-controlled. The slatted wooden structure alone, gathering rain, grime footfall avoider, acutely nowhere away from reason; the friendly hut. So children trudge ankle-deep mud-inspired to wistfully despise that aloneness, useless bridge in potential, visible. Lost. Simon Huggins, 10th February 2003

The first photos were taken Revealing roughly haired dunes that self-compressed, formed tunes that sung "Why have you forsaken me?" [wobble wobble wobble] It's bad; worse than a mild berating; The rear shots the worst of all: Where fat meet sheets that fall to form white plains, undulating [wobble wobble wobble] I shade the areas of *other* interest compressed onto brave web pages. To show the grotesque stages from bad to Ok; breasts to chest. Not [wobble wobble wobble] And next month folds and creases may hang a little less. The potential may emerge. And then, eventually, When binging almost ceases, so will [wobble wobble wobble]. Simon Huggins, 10th February 2003

And we start with a hair: Stray, blonde, human curled fragile blending defocusing focusing not-quite-2D piercing reality defocusing back fore through nothing dropped lost again to complexity. Simon Huggins, 6th February 2003

There are moments in snow of stillness presence warmth. A turning breeze stops short frozen wave-fronts converge synthesized to zero the quiet hurts. Minutiae becomes grand; infinite detail suddenly whole. The world is a scream a self-synthesizing dream constructing moments then resuming catastrophe. Simon Huggins, 30th January 2003

There is no end. Compressions cut a path, high and loud, wide and high pitched to my tiny little hairs to which my brain responds back and forth. Hirsute noise. Go low, slow the energetic down and wrap the waveform languidly around, skipping rope of long, strong lucid sound. These wax-plugs invent distraction. And the sinusoidal peaks, troughs warble to become insensate. Thank you. I welcome such purity. Simon Huggins, 21st January 2003

The xenon sweeps across, around the pustulent black shine photons skittering the rough acute, above and advanced the tarmac becomes zero ocean. I find this unsettles the mind so it engages in *poor me so cold, I am* I am. This is a cold, harbouring beauty and I do not want to see it. The bus slumbers in, gladly I ascend the shape, movement all about that I know. No zero. No solitary suction of simple shared wave-eye alone. I wrap my hands, gloved in gloves, in cross-arms in huddled in cold. The null in cold will pass. Simon Huggins, 21st January 2003

Gloves in a breast pocket, gives you a tit just one tit. Gloves in a breast pocket gives you a tit man has mastectomy ma-ma! Gloves on a short string makes you hit your own face. Gloves on a short string makes you hit gives you a blinder, ma-ma! Gloves when you strike me hides the bruises me confuses. Gloves when you strike me hides the bruises; I curl like a baby, ma-ma! Gloves so thin on bright white fingers makes me shiver laid out here, mum. Gloves so thin on bright white fingers makes me shiver out my pink-popped or-gans. Simon Huggins, 20th January 2003

Go forth and find yourself a place to hide Until, of course, the place itself, it hides Being sought by the hordes who would find ease Ease without a thought of what life could be Reneging hope for the certainty of the bleak No hope, no hope of love nor the hatred brought And no hope of striking out nor bideless change To take one's soul and beat through the holes Or beat your soul to others, persuasion brings Reality and reality brings faith, brings change Inside a glow, emerging from that place unfound Allows all to see that they would emulate that: Lost now in that place you sought: No hiding place. - Simon Huggins, 14th January 2003

Red tail-lights; amber on off on -- Through breath-dew, through bus-face an affront to assume these starlets - brightly car-created, the blinking is not primordial fire, a pre-spark of post-simian thought, as flint shuffles and - are they tail-lights? blink again. Red hot elements - fire indicators causing blinking through condensation cause effect cause effect because my accepting mind sees electronically and flints are relegated, forgotten -- museum dust attracting the stretched that long to span the epoch space and displace the wire / flint fire mindspace. Simon Huggins, 12th December 2002

We do the Kings-Cross Shuffle at Five, all tubes converge nether-glazed, tube-medicated we could reach ahead, all make a cha-cha train. Foot-snare music, *Sorry* lyrics, syncopated - We could be the world's greatest rhythmic blues band, jazz-inspired. And as yellow, black, blue lines combine, this palette becomes unavoidably brown. All rise the escalator, destination ground. Avoiding fans. Now... And we separate, disseminate seat-seeking ideals. One look conveys disdain for laggers or worse, seat-hanging scum. What do you think we have become? The drum of track-swing beckons you now. Read your magazine. Book. Flick poetry. Phase out. Call the machine at home. Simon Huggins, 25th November 2002