Welcome from Simon ! 👋

It happened on Friday. Five days in. Hurriedly ambling from St. Pancras following the Smarties; tube-fillers who through rote now herd themselves intricately weaving to fill all holes. I am now them. I must be, when unconsciously I find myself on the platform to Morden. Just short of halfway up the spattered line. Then slide in. Graciously, I allow the last seat to an eyes-down lady. Annoyed? A little backspark of chivalry. So I position myself, arm looped perchingly around to pole-shiver-dance. Centre stage, I reveal a shiny red poetry book read silently aloud I peek over its crisp white top finding seated all those tomes crinkled, time-blurred edges: A foreign language book that generations preserved entrusted to brittle care; depth to float my paperback pristine, tawdry. Without history. Plastic-sealed library book that shares mathematical symbology to those ordained in abstract thought held tight by symbiotic necessity radiates a desperate intensity unintentionally broadcast. I see. My book returns, catches my rucksack begins its journey with a frown that may evolve one day to myriad rivulets of creases, scuff-fluff, love. I disembark, sunk to docklands' platform Smartie-ushered by their osmotic bustle facelessly placed away from home. Alone. I resolve next week to be prepared and seek meanwhile an emery board to carefully scuff my favourite book; There. History done. - Simon Huggins, 22nd November 2002

As my ears whisper urgently please *gulp* please I close my eyes and think *train in tunnel, gulp, gulp* as though quantity is quality when considering ears - their implosive potentiality. I sneak a peek at nowhere sonically passing as feet resonate the vibrating shake and like a duplicate dream the red-topped lady blurs into spectred perspective and my ears close in again *gulp gulp close your eyes* the remaining reflection stops me. Tunnel, night composite in my gulping mind as my eyes close, open again until mid-burning transients swim the ply-glass gradients in the dark side, that is mine. I barely respond, the source a neon dirge to speck-flung souls and close my eyes again - consider my wracking bladder, the reaching bleep of phones and the pressing tingle of feet and floor. Simon Huggins, 21st November 2002

Such stringed relief thwacks your fretful fingerboard. A shame, my friend the straining rhythm descends into a rising vocal triumph: You shot the sheriff, but sadly did not deputise tonality. Relieved to abandon prejudice - Escalate to my waiting train; Leaving that tonal tantrum, shot-sheriff of my perception of the black-rhythm-talent-tube inherent in underlondon thing. And my tumult lands me forgetfully into a pre-reserved seat. Not mine, dear London. Goodbye, dear London. I lose myself in my definite walkman. Simon Huggins, 20th November 2002

Focus, they say, on your Goal. Which is fine unless juggle-footed you find yourself balancing twelve balls. My soccer skills wanted. At twelve I was told (by a school star - honoured) that I was great positionally but unfortunately, could not kick a ball. And so, a life and a half on I tinker on and find (shock to me) that juggling let along kicking is a skill best left to those insane with Visions, or something. Vision juggling. Manage that you management guru twat. Simon Huggins, 20th November 2002

It is now that I realize that you held it like a little trophy only third prize, but yours all the same: Diabetes. Can make your feet drop off. "You're putting on the pounds," he says in a half-weeble, half-blinded way. Still, I can't berate this sick, sick man; He only wants to impart this knowledge His trophy: Four tablets a day; Herbal Teas and Sugarless sweets. "I guess it might help your weight too." "Yes," he says. "I don't really want to be rotating injections around me. People at the factory disappear into the lavatory eight times a day." "I suppose you're lucky," I say. He says yes, he's overweight but it's also in the genes. I'm sure your parents as they fed you up thought only "Eat you're genes my boy And maybe, maybe you'll be a diabetic one day." You seem so wide-eyed when you mention my wife who said "He's a lecturer at the college part-time." It was my own choice. It didn't just happen to me. So hence I need no pride; Just the simple knowledge I try Fail sometimes, keep going And maybe, if I just keep on trying I will never be a feature in The Diabetic Times. - Simon Huggins, 9th November 2002

Remember, remember this autumn day Let trees shower down confetti leaves October's blazing golden rays Burn memories deep, let time not thieve this day — All raise a glass; All smile. All pause — reflect this union wrought: Two rings — shields for two kneeling souls whilst Pause — be still, germinate this thought: Lesley — Melvyn. A simple, considered choice. As night concludes this windswept day — Sweeps two seeking souls away Lets rest this unity, starts a whispered voice — to rise, in time; Seek light, find together your way. Arise, anchored in the memory of this autumn day. - With Love from Simon & Pat on this day 26th October 2002 ...

he chuntered on riparian friends lapping from his effulgent fusion enlightened grandiloquent effused and confused his peers looking on then a lull his chin a pillow for thought springing renascent again with a bowstring grasp and crack back his head makes the shot roars a gasp reviews returns the empty glass insensate to our company now my friend we lead on out sensatory pearl of endearment turns smiles burps frowns vomits in our trouser folds dashes the shine from our shoes woebegone corpulent floor man mordant weak to our viscous reek fettle-fallen we fellers retire dragged to taxi-tethers pulled in home. - Simon Huggins, 23rd October 2002

Introduction It has been three months in the making, and an incredibly educational exercise for its author… Creation Myth is my first attempt at producing a cohesive thematic sequence of verse. Having read the collection from beginning-to-end a few times now, I find that the overriding mood and underlying themes make even me, as the author, uneasy. They have an undertone of the adolescent - with [in]appropriate preoccupations - as it should be, I guess. ...

webs and spiders; shiny metal pieces magnetised to the scratched plastic base surprised to be aside a metal box their sideways attitude makes all heads synchronize jeer not, this gimcrack's journey - torn of tintagel's palace where gifts and hungry pilgrims collaborate in magical matches and placed with a clang its place rests upon the side of my filing pedestal. webs and spiders climb to escape the black-pull gravity lateral they rise, shaped in sculpture they find some tenuous purpose in form. Simon Huggins, 20th September 2002

from Creation Myth [#30 - last part] Wasted dangle-dead no hooks nor packaging just soft lighting belt-choked bannister swingless, motionless naked. Beneath his body waste duel between plush carpet, semen-stool mess. Choked slowly wide-belt ensuring a gradual crush final knuckle-scuff unseen, too late. The note explained the waste was too much That removal was the only explanation extraneous, surplus to requirements. Wasting, wasted no more. That final waste scraped, finally disposed. Wasted again. The casket subdued in flame ash-waste remains, scatter-lost in memory. Friend-waste, childhood. Dead. Walk on... Simon Huggins, 13th September 2002