Welcome from Simon ! 👋

Mail, via light and circuit boards, bypass our postman's morning clack, through burps and songs of digital joins, an inbox of windows' flash and burn. Nothing and flip-bits march and flop, A door-tap stops both thoughts and clicks. Postman, pass my brown box of joy, Touch-to-touch a mortar-ground bit of my digitally-bound soul. Back to that cold box-bitty glow. Day-to-night-to- so- so- so- Simon Huggins, 4th June 2002

Average morning, I trudge your average stairs down to check the mail that isn't there at the doorstep. It's Bank Holiday, Jubilee hurrah. Outside the street is dead but for the deathly rattle like a snake with the neighbours stuck in it's throat, choking them out. Again and again. It doesn't work. I look for the source. Three newspaper shards: Triptych on my lawn. Ridiculous waddle in the junction from my court has all the space in the world to seek out their remains. Neat black, tumbles back. Beak is shut tight. Currently the chill launches from the windowsill. I count: One, but I made my peace long, long ago. I still say Hello silently, so nobody knows. You're sort-of-comical, beautiful, maligned. You open your beak. Rattle the screech; release the ancient chill in me. Why hack at my rationality? Beautiful, Screech, you seek with your silent cousin - The court is yours, the dead will yet be risen. Prisoners in their beds and homes. Brushwood paper joins its friends, conspires to keep us locked and safe. Roots from the dismembered hole that Murphy's made: A clipped reminder that even trees can join the morbid remains. They wander blandly from the remaining desolate stage - All the remains, inanimate but for the wind-choked Smarties tube. But join us here you Pigeon, fat as a Raven but twice as slow. You make this *Bouffé* when the composer, devoid of riches decided: Tragedy transmits the desolation that I currently feel. However, do not settle, enter right and stage left, flanking... A butterfly lightly lands, the tarmac screams this scene is badly handled. Director cuts, papers roll, actors flash their Equity cards. This production could only be on Bank Holiday at 8:15. The scene tumbles, never to be seen, a rehearsal to the paperboy whose fat cheeks have exhausted simplicity. The stage, emptied, is ready for the day to step on. Simon Huggins, 3rd June 2002

It's an excuse: Those little salt-fiends radially decorate the couscous plate. They obfuscate the delicious complex carbohydrate taste, unnecessary hatred for their knockout palate bias. White plains of Catherine-wheels whizz your senses around, you turn your backs, all your backs on what is actually a culinary masterpiece. More for me. Simon Huggins, 2nd June 2002

Fascinating, threadbare child of an insect grubby no more, with your pristine wings translucently larger than a glowing greenfly you're sort-of-colourless with a black inside and basking silently atop a ripple my flesh beneath the fibrous swathes colourful hides my benign insides you rest, observed from high, from careless aside to careless fidget, of bustled breezing you've tumbled the precipice to a tenuous edge legs like filaments catch-a breezing humour from your hidden faceted eyes so right yourself, like a complex weeble it's never too late to regain the entertaining insect friend, this lack of animation offends like scree - poised deception my digit responds but Oh! How your clumsy static crackling petrified remains respond in kind not right! your wing drops off. Open up that pit shit. Beautiful creature. Dead all along. Simon Huggins, 31st May 2002

Darts thud limply to the board - Newton tugs, but still the slight score remains. Lightly touch the pins, fall out to hand three missiles over to the serious one. Straight, embedded true and firm. Were there vessels buried deep they would now gush. Ebullient, tug and twist around the blades score marks to the white-streaked slate. Dog-ends' symbiotic with the dregs; Abandoned beer sizzles, swallows and soaks-up ash-tar clouds; Around, swill around, mix out the stamped-out sized-down crumpled rounds. Disinterest remains. Let him play. Let the stale puddles catch the wall-lit glare. Let the pool-ball clack engulf the jangling ears - Where earrings are large enough to deceive. He has belief, as dart follows laugh follows man. Follow him on. Heart pumps beer from stomachs to brains; Memories suck the alcoholic remains in apathetic waves: Slowly, a round becomes engaged. Blunted darts bounce from the board until no score remains. The slate is even grey. Simon Huggins, 27th May 2002

Inside, I obscure the providing glow - Evening's assistant to the blinds. Mute crystal light is fragile still. The ambience sucks on solitude. Word-processed lines, they underline the absent quiet of empty spouse. Pages fill, scroll on, tap on - Brim over as digits pound. Nervous hairs scrape back-to-back as though their tinder tames wild beasts. Amassing armies to neck's last stand against the fear beyond that seen. Turn slowly, let the neck-hairs rest. She stands, awaits me once again. In beauty, she blondly unresists - Dark motes connect our colourless eyes. Touch, and touch her hair again. Drawn in, the Swish! beguiles. A drool spot catches the monitor light. Calmed, she is begone. The words are waves smoothed to a still, Through fingers' osmotic pressure, still - The closing lines draw tired eyes. A prickle states: Her sister's near. A queen whose motley dark-hair claims a contrast to those strawberry wiles. Her nervous need betrays her youth - Fresh strokes - My comfort's near. Her heart pounds out the echoed door - As keys clatter notice that my wife is home. Our two queens greet her jealously - Dependence purrs independently. Simon Huggins, 26th May 2002

Bright light squares Flash film aside Glow lightly white Squint dull eyes Smear crystal trickles Obscure needle views Stipple wet dry Thrashes pain awide. There! Window frost Wrench fists aside Condensed motes combine Balance revelation Obfuscation, further - Still, Stipples aside Darkness parts, find Tarmac gathered in Horror parted, slide Down, tarmac history behind. Simon Huggins, 24th May 2002

It is that time, get lost. The clock is off and off and off. Bog off. I slap the noise, retreat. Hand in sleep, topples the cup. F**k off F**k off F**k off. At least I think I'm up. The milk is off, F**k off. Trip the cat, time to off. On clothes from day before. On scraps of days gone by. One day my hair will live - A man with self once more. Let's start. Say: Bye. - Simon Huggins, 12th May 2002

While you were gone I found myself — but maybe should have bathed. You bathed in a hotel room, in front of a television showing only Sky one. Sufficient. Can I finally sleep alone, eat alone, tidy the house alone? I could do it all, but why? Lonely, shut my eyes. Simon Huggins, 12th May 2002

Aardvarks being cute, Don't Elephants fly? Grasp heaven, It's just - Karl lifts masses nigh. Orphans piece quiet reminiscences. Stop. Take universal vacuousness. Wait. Xanadu yelled... Zzzzzzzzzz. Simon Huggins, 11th May 2002