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To where?’ he asked, face agape in features. ‘You said…’ The Paternal face was warm, soft, friendly. It melted into understanding and the grey-day background, haze of monet colour drabness. The Paternal face, said ‘Yes. To Sheffield.’ His face, his mind was wrinkled in confusion, until a small blot of thundercloud-darkening anger stirred. Something was not right. To a council house. In Sheffield.’ The eyes were almost watery in their steady comforting embrace. That fond understanding , that calm, heaty acceptance. What Do You Know? ...

It’s not true that I am clever and you are dumb. (It’s not true that you are dumb, or [/ and] maybe It’s not true that I am clever.) It’s not a heap of shite to say that we and you should be together. (It’s not untrue to say that you should be with you or/and It’s not untrue to say that we should be with we). I don’t know if God exists and love is true. (I don’t know if God exists. or/and I don’t know if love is true). You won’t see my black and blue. [You won’t see my black or/and You won’t see my blue). You have been to me and you? (It’s not true that (You’ve not been to me or/and You’ve not been to you) ) If finish two. Simon Huggins, 5th June 1992

You're Alive, Bastard. Simon Huggins, 17th May 1992

Ignorance is bliss Whilst the bullets miss. - Simon Huggins, 8th May 1992

“Are you gifted?” asked Paul. This took Joseph by surprise. “What do you mean, gifted?” Paul thought on this a moment. “I don’t know. Mum says she thinks I am gifted, but I don’t really know what it means. Does it mean you can play the piano?” Joseph’s thoughts floundered for a reply rather than excuse, whilst Paul waited expectantly, watching Joseph’s face. Finally, “Well, all sorts of people can be gifted. It means that you do well in certain areas of life much more easily than others, if you see what I mean.” ...

There was a draught coming from somewhere. The source wasn’t immediately obvious, but Paul alighted the floor from his comfy chair, laying his pristine book on the intricately woven tapestry that saved the arm of the comfy chair from a fate of dust and dirt. The book slid from the arm, the intricately woven tapestry following closely as if the book were clinging desperately, wishing Why-Oh-Why does he not have a bookmark? They fell to the floor without a noise, cushioned by the intimate cuddle of the pile carpet. It sort-of spine-bounced, caught the intricately woven tapestry within its pages, hugging as if having found a new friend, finally resting in peace with its front cover hiding towards the darker floor. ...

A vague intention towards the daisy. Sidling stealthily, Leaping soulfully. Triumphant victory gleams 'til opening cups of hands. Simon Huggins, 28th January 1992

Mmm, yes I like that smell It's me! Yes, it's me! I like the smell that welcomes me home It's Me! Yes, it's me! Regularly. Sometimes, the smell it fades away, It fades away from me! Sometimes a fresh clear cold insists That is replaces me! Totally. But then I close the windows shut And fell the tingle fly. It dies; becomes dull rhythmless warmth That's me! Yes, it's me! Undoubtedly. But who would come and say to me: 'It's me! Let me in, it's me!' They lose me from my mud; and anger now. THAT'S ME YES IT WAS ME! My Broken reality. -- * -- I took a cup of tea today To see if it was me! I took one sip, and more (for sure) But found it wasn't me! [he found it wasn't he, boom boom] - Simon Huggins, 2nd December 1991

She won't be going back home. It stank of sweat and beer. The faeces she could imagine Smeared over his body. As she licked it off in modest glory. Look what I've *ACHIEVED!!!* 'I love you darling,' And she did. Despite the lack of veil. The cheap net curtain substitute that her friend knocked up. So kind of her. A cherished kindness, they moved apart. When he entered her. All she imagined was Alien Invasion. A cold wet night of slurried mud. He waded around in delirium. And all the while *she* was beneath his feet. But sometimes she tried to remember *him*. The cold acrid atmosphere of truffle hunt Put a stop to that. Naked now, she stands in the pouring rain. Holding her thumb as a gift. Who knows who will stop. What life can tenderly offer. Swirl it thoughtfully round your palette? And swallow the blood, sweat, semen, tears. Simon Huggins, 10th November 1991

She could be observed through a glass sheet of pain. She was not going to live. He stood, his legs aching sympathetic to his brow. She lay in the bed sympathetic to her death. He turned to leave his duty done. The walk to the door through the corridor. And as he put the key to the hole As if an explosion was to come. He hesitated. Could he kill? Could he kill Someone else? He turned the key And pushed the pedal And pushed it some more. He must get the dent fixed Sometime It felt out of place. Can I give you a kiss ? - No, she's dead. Just to know i'm still love. But she left In a hurry. - Simon Huggins, 15th October 1991