Tridents were laid thin along the ivory toned stonework, behind the mouth of the revert gate. In the great wall beyond, a male USB was the centre of radiating ridges in acorn wax, fifty feet across and tall. They opened the roller doors with lightning in the mornings, when the dew lent its softening to strength.

In the morning, before the piercing faces worm their ways in through the colonnades, they shift the sliding sheets across the escarpment, with the cheese-stone heaps outside. Then they range the tridents against them – all is kept safe in the record.

2023/02/07 #DailyWrittenOOM

Garfield’s sun was high, out of the reach of horizon towers, the claw necklace fringing the great bowl where a jaundiced eagle sat as goblin’s sit: cross-legged, with the feet on top. Navy brown darts marked the half pillar of the many along the walls; might the stabbing icicles find a way through the catacombs? If hair is strewn on the way, the directory will give up without a wink the fold in Trayer Canada Fe.

Mackerel skies over Trayer today, they brought the frowning fish in a paper bag. Trowels and let the ankles free, they passed the rutted snow in the place where no colour such as white exists: went in the material breeze. The pan-tokenal gains entry to the fan of trains spread, the skirt of an accordion, the foot of the fifty-toed goose. Located there, they studied the aspect of phenomenon, the Garfield’s sun which had taken that day.

2023/02/06 #DailyWrittenOOM

The maestro cradled the mixture of powdered glass base, in the sky-blue ceramic bowl, pale suns with pointed rays on its sides. He sat on the window sill, from whence he could see his grey Volkswagen Rabbit, and its license plate, bordered with small flying bats on a background gradient of light yellow down to darker peach.

The siren was sounding, as if a tornado siren, marking twelve o-clock to many miles. A black cross of beams and stoplight wires divided the view of the heavens. The window beyond the window cradled another man, all in the glowing, ephemeral colours of eye-burn from bright light plunged into darkness. All the other windows contracted to obscured loop-holes in that featureless black sheet across the space, a rectangle of metal paper. Beyond the other man, through his lightless room and down the dark hallway, through the room at the other end, another window, green as a golfer’s visor, with winter day’s light coming through it.

The maestro cast a pinch of silver salt, fogged by his breath, into the bowl he held, and forthwith from the glass powder there sprouted tufted nibbling-beaked fingers of green flame.

2023/02/05 #DailyWrittenOOM

Sheets of clear liquid wax were running down before the windows of the chancellor hallway. Breakfast hovered on dented trays and stalled. Warped triangles ruled the geometry of the common structures, sending the map into chaos and hurt. Plants, flowers, grew and wilted at once, stretching forth, thickening stems, thickening and darkening sap that sweated and beaded in the furrowed wrinkles of the rind. Brave long-haired Shirley zigzagged the labyrinth to reach the stairs; the clasps of the chains only caught her twice, in the sleeve and her sock. The echo of the slam came back and cracked the concrete wall by the kitchen entry; sallow eyes writhed drowsily from the damage.

Cocky feldspar ran amok and corniced the mudroom; foul tracks spiralled there into the puckered noose and remained reminded. The hair-like abundance of bindings shook in air, for the leaders were all gone on long travels; the cakes unturned at home, burning. Sprouted toes launched upon discourse: host the flies that gather, take the certificates with restraint, bind them in the air with the rest, so we will go to rest.

They made of the flatterer a stock, pinned the seam with a wall made square. Under flagrant patchwork diaries flooded out the store of travels’ dues: made a printed way to draw the beams from the halls, and betook them to the aster, with Shirley among them nursing her arm and leg. They found diagonal bores in effect, and carried them out to the hill; never a lamp shone so clear and liquid, never a sortie was so trialled in the halls.

2023/02/03 #DailyWrittenOOM

Chartered after the clean keel took the right angled horn, buttered off the round scale into the impervious sheet, sable and deep, dank with the giddy dew and velveted in filed zinc. Water whale, the growing field in summerstine, with prying goad pierced through with coniferous needles, softened by the furs of sea stars, we knew the frail gate when we saw it down.

Draped, the cold-galled heinous wright travelled well into the brown decay, and the dust that set the friends in shivered range; he knew the bold new-fangled welkin, and took flayed the broad dayside with a hatchet and rays.

While the keys rimmed the hollow juggler in the store window and its reflection, meteyards and skies were at it in the corner, raving the cobbles, the flesh, and the dry. I will not pass the winter way alone, at night, or in the eaves of the clustered feeds.

2023/02/02 #DailyWrittenOOM

Rapscallions twined together on the hearth in Beecher Lane; heads of iron pickets pummel down like summer clubs on the gossamer veil, too faint to billow much in protestation or pomp. Vigour loosed from the veins, trigger pulled to ring, trap and click and runabout because the dogs.

Wild luring on the baked lap in green, tried and shuffled out of crisscrossed framed panes; never did the stamping mind the ruts, the jointed arms of coloured gravel that spring, aloes’ arms from the holes of the fake, wavering head. The pincers collect, and leave the silence like water behind. We break the silence and begin the whole again with a rustle and a bite.

2023/02/01 #DailyWrittenOOM

Treasure bones hidden in the silty, sifting sand. Grains fell between the sheets of metal grating, and down out of reach. Met upon the strand the immaterial code in breaths, caught with dragging hands out over the slightly painted surfaces with their grit. Fine lines fell out without catching foot on spur or speed, right on the anvil prow and the keel followed.

While the woven shuttle was breaking through the crest of curling wire, branched across the thoroughfare, a shaft of glass or two to pierce the fog were there, and papers and belts that bound the buildings and the city up; I kept my broken wing laid up, and now am ready to go down again to the dust to comb the ancient things from in among the coarse frames.

2023/01/31 #DailyWrittenOOM

Colourful hatter, jiving with the knifing, bending telephone poles brought the platter, the wide platter before him, empty but for reflections of the hats and the faces and the colours in the sky. Raging hair spread throughout the borders of the military land, drums cracked and the whistles ached with the cry, rumours of smells that told like birds. Few rained in the back pantry, little came down in the tiled nook between three and three quarters of walls, where the air is clear and you can’t see further than you can reach.

Tongue twisters for the little ones in frills, and they said it again sitting in the upstairs windows and bowing poles, they came down like useless combs with so few teeth, fewer tines than a gapped fork. The way their eyes wandered, and their walls followed after, mingling and complexifying like the nets of interweaving ripples on the ponds between rushes, mingling like the fingers of lovers and the gnats in their stormy dance. There was room enough for swords and more.

Tricked out, frills and wit, stepping along the colours into the clear white sky.

2023/01/30 #DailyWrittenOOM

The baleful damsel, child of the midnight road, ground the the gravel under small feet; coils of steam charged from her gaping nostrils as from the funnel of a freight train engine; dew of exertion dripped like melting snow from the ends of her hair as it heaved like a fish on dry land. She came on, rigid and destructive, a pale boulder pinned under a moving glacier, an inexorable stylus marking a grooved line on the bones of the countryside. I let the child pass, the baleful thing passed me by then on that midnight road.

2023/01/27 (Catching up) #DailyWrittenOOM

Trevor the toad slipped along the knobbled byway in the dark and wet of the hunting night. Clock towers bristled up from the country villages like frost columns that suspend the tops of mole hills. Lightning swam in the briny atmosphere, and torrents whispered through culvert, dam, and drain.

A pale hand reaching out from the bars clasped the toad, and dragged it into the whirl of darkness and cold where drops sat and draughts conspired like kings; it was the pale hand of Trevor’s young master, who was very much relieved to find him.

2023/01/29 #DailyWrittenOOM