Welcome from Simon ! 👋

...And the link did not quite make it to the internet island so back browser button, forget that maybe this was perhaps the one dead, sunk Atlantean thought, from which one click unravels through arches of gateways and translations of rules, protocols and etiquette unseen beneath silt and fishes, repeaters repeat it - back and forth exchanges of flip-flops under beaches and ice-creams, cities, laptops on benches, under-green trees mobile phones all whistle the same disconnection site unavailable - press the back button now Simon Huggins, 7th July 2002

from Creation Myth [#1] At the end of unexpected waves that send me stumbling to the privacy of the cloakroom I send three circling shakes down again and unexpectedly you dribble out. Goodness, at thirteen it's sure a shock of pink tissue, makes me think of papier mache boats that sink when pushed out quick and reluctantly are flushed away. But fishes swim their butterfly strokes against the flushing tides of various vents that ply the nourishing slime to synthesize tampons, excrement, other wasted asides. Shaken, you climb the dank interior nestled in crud, borne atop the rising odour whose perpetual reminder finds you stopped amidst your thoughts that drag you down. Condoms come is condoms spent you seek some purpose in their flow to travel onwards goalless - gives them time to compare notes build resentment regroup and reframe. Simon Huggins, 7th July 2002

Entertaining how little can make you weep. Stop it. You know I hate your pointless quivering blames. Great. Why do you think I often partake of drink. It's you. You fat cow bloated on gripes of whine. I'm gone. Mostly you see it's nature's way but now. You're firm. In a wibbly wobbly way I laugh and point. You stop. How little it takes to beat you sofa sunk. I sit. My arm encircles it (you) stupid whore. You cry. And that's one more for the score to me. You're mine (tick). I love you enough to keep you here you hole. Stop dead. I find it best when you accept I'm gone. And on. Today I'm down the pub with mates not you. But you - You're special, aren't you? - Simon Huggins, 7th July 2002

Hey Rico, You and Me must get together sometimes it seems you're avoiding me. You're right (you nagger, wop, whatever) I'm often quite poor conversation. At least I don't smell of frogs or garlic, or ask for a light then take from behind. Come to think of it, you seem quite silent But then you're slow and lazy besides you make me laugh when with flair I extinguish your physical, cultural, unsociable traits. But immediately I'm guilty, apologising anxiously wishing these thoughts were not hidden here in a black dark dangerous hidden repository waiting to bait me, finding the moment where Rico, again I'm avoiding your eyes. I despise the fact you don't despise back but then I guess you have your own store of the scapegoating insults I've sent your way. You'll probably take both barrels one day and blow this imaginary repository away. Still, until that time, my brain-only buffer I'll thank you to be neither seen nor (except in my jittery head) heard. Simon Huggins, 5th July 2002

"This sale of all my workmanship is on is on, please come on in." He ushered me down to rock-hewn depths to a darkened room that hinted gloom; a whispered atmosphere. "I am a simple potter by trade but my pots are out of vogue." The flicker of torches on the walls made pots and walls near come alive; belie such humble claims. "I have but one request to make: Buy just one pot, and have the lot." These pots could fit in quite a lot but how to get them up the steps; a magic wand appears. "I went back to my roots, they say I'm mad, but now the need is back." I nervously back away in fear. The room turns round, the pots stand still; We sway from the centre, he says: "I'll let you stay and have the lot - your stay will seem but momentary." The pots transmute experience with words and verse sucked through my brain; they liquefy again. "The world need words and poetry my time is here. Stay here a while." The pots brim over; I ladle out the iridescent oil of fantasy; take sips and think slowly. "Goodbye, take care. Adios. Sod off. My craft is erstwhile, but made current." I vaguely note his presence gone, the osmotic oil leaks from my pen; string yards and miles of yarns. "Dear Harry, these pots are full of life; they overflow. I'll stay, thank you." Under the dust, the paper gleams, make still life and parables in poetry; prosperity can wait a while. Simon Huggins, 3rd July 2002

My serene journey begins Wisps of spliff-filled smoke curl across the forced divides -- These membrane-pressured eyes; bespectacled eyelash-shearers frame the vast smear-windows of this bus that cinematically pan outside. The children blow out cheek-balloons against the scuttling frames of cars. Inside the black Os of their mouths squeeze a pacified anguish out against the glass whilst parents shout icily wipers scrape the frost in irresolute veins. And parents lock shoulders again rigidly staring ahead. And two workmen protect their ears against these silent cries; Muffle-in their compulsive need. They tend this telephone junction box and open the great steel magic doors: No chocolate treat that advent brings But wires and infinite circuitry They smile, avoiding one another's eye Unzip their flies, impassioned streamers free trapped sparks, cares, and hatred fly. It is almost firework night. Parents carefully truss their children up and swarm fires. Warm in mitten, huge designer coats see their little faces glow and wonderment abound. See the relief come flow with fears Parents: It's all worthwhile Parents, let free the sacrifice -- resentment builds like current flow around the fire and through their cares. They hold aloft their young and pray As gods inspect the half-baked job they made and nod. "Yes, throw them back in. Let entropy finish your untackled hate." Perhaps as screams subside to crackling These silent faces are free now never to begin. Simon Huggins, 1st July 2002

An arse of humungous proportions reserved two cinema seats -- despite corpusculent contortions The armrest maneuver's a feat. The logical divide is the fissure squeezed shut by the two *Prisoner* globes It is no joke to be anally probed Unless that you're particular pleasure. The one-cheek perch is a treasure If you don't imagine them disrobed Lurked there somewhere's a bum-bone That magnetically attracts to this pressure. Two feet on the seats are quite sweet Hanging over the back: two large portions Swinging in time to convulsions of laughter I tie them in knots in revulsion. Simon Huggins, 1st July 2002

Is this our day of rest? I cast away my church-going clothes when, in transition to my upper school our vicar smiled, explaining we should turn to God and Jesus in our troubled times. Smack, I had been sort-of-Christian until this best-intention caught me at my weakest time. Angered, I smacked all faith aside - welcomed in my new belief - brave cynicism arise! and show me to my adult self. Force this foolish religious childishness aside. And here I am: shopping bags in hand, screaming: "Open all shops, this is the only day I can proliferate my worth" - a rest of sorts. Arrested thoughts, thoughts long gone. This cynical siding, a still-clefted path. Still, unhappy in my shopping - It's a sort-of start. Simon Huggins, 30th June 2002

We hurtle on. Contrasting greens blur - sickening base for perching scruffy shrubs asking, just asking for the rush of a cigarette stub, a dead roll the car thunders on suspension compensation for the lumps and humps, explaining how such severe usage defers repairs and funnels taxes elsewhere. End of speed restriction ditch the use of clutch or gears - if only there was sixth, seventh, eighth the blurs and bumps would disintegrate into a sort of hyperspace. Faster must be safer our mass must be less wafer-thin we pass through this traffic-mess the vacuum of vehicles plying the sucking sky, the rolled-out road apart and in a roundabout way we find ourselves home and in our drive, parked. The cars a mystery - killed in time their fate, a history lesson unread, still please, if you ever get the choice again: Take the train. Simon Huggins, 30th June 2002

Inexhaustible greenery, very well done. Through my eyelash haze, I appreciate your perpetual mastery. Photosynthesise lethargy from my eye sockets - Shlop! Then pop back in life, continuity. The alternative being, I take this automobile and with maximum speed, an explosion of discovery and give a little sip of what it's like to be a non-tree. Simon Huggins, 26th June 2002