Into the Moss

Rousseau and Marengo Part 4: What goes in must then come out. What OTIS lifts it must let fall. Short-changed, enflamed and fading out, the question darks the mouths of all.

Rousseau and Marengo Part 3: The way the gravy trickles at the feast of fools cannot swamp the fact that OTIS sets the rules.

Intermission: Whether Marco, Yarrow or Charlton Athletic graft him a future, there’s a largish crowd waiting to cheer at the resulting haché.

Rousseau and Marengo Part 2: When a fall guy fronts, it's not long before an affront is felt. Duplicity dials, but who will answer?

Rousseau and Marengo Part 1: Bon mots, or not, garbled from the gables. What fool would rise to meet the demands of Fantoft?

Rumination 30: Meat is muddier on the grassier climbs, yet climbing is cruddier to the meatier minds.

On a train-ride through the nervous system, packed among badges, badgers and bandages, Mrs Blandings sits aimlessly astride a listless chestnut mare.

A survivalist makes some internal adjustments. Partners in crime call it a day.

A tap on the cubicle door heralds a problem of greater girth than that of maimed apples or a cartoon grocery threat.

What flies circle this tempting treat, shedding their inventory in the poem of empty vessels?

Bread & butter, rice & potato, lump & leg: conclude your slop around Peppin's Fair.

Roll up for the Grabbits, and the Lump and the Leg, here consuming or consumed.

Barking in the churchyard, in a static swamp, on the trail of a cinecidal director... Action!

Unkempt pamphlets are best read standing. A tragic mission is premised on a bad Greek camel. But then everything does turn into soup.

Weep in the wake of a Cornish steamboat; weep for a lesson well learned; weep for matched socks in a silver Mondeo; weep for a love lost to lust; and weep once more for weeping's sake.

Dino diner in watery grave; Dream teacher pizza shame; Dazzling Dad's canon comeuppance.

Hatches cede to grant the tortoise leafy sleep. A screenwriter clambers over a droid's husky homecoming. A big pink lousy drink is thrown into the haze.

Tongue, teeth and mouth rest better in decay, while the living run on glucose and ice cream. And goats.

An attic nap. Words under pillow feel firmer than earth under foot. Too late to dig yourself out of your inbox. Lay down the shovel and come back into the house.

Two angels by dust bitten; one cat, neither sat nor sitten.

Are we strolling into festivities or caught on the bottom of a sinister shoe? As a rejuvenated fox flexes its shape-shifting muscles, are we spiralling through its soft tissues?

A fox is cannon fodder for a tradition served up with a bang, but who saw what and does someone else have eye-deers for this splattered heap who strayed from the skulk?

Passages rob their wanderers. Gourds wheeze. New job at Lofties. Young lights flicker over pine.

Manuscripts masticated into the masonry. Lucifer on the loo. Old boshers have a bash.

Oliver plunges into the nonchaotic, leaving Tom to drag the entire world into the black hole of his body. An everyday psycho terminates their scheming schematism and a seagull gets a stitch.