Saturday 19 March 2011

Standing At The Edge, Dr Weathercock and Mr Moths

One saucer, silver. Hare bacon, very rare. Tease the meat. Lift it from the bone like the sheet from your sleeping lover. Lay it. Tempt it with butter – bad and rancid. Very rancid, lickity-tip. Leave by the door. Upon a table no higher than your knee. Leave.
Quite the worst case of scambling. A scambling indeed and a ripely toothsome scamble that aye, see – here? Mr Moths fetch for me the scambling acids. Mr Moths? My Oaf. A gentle soul. Albeit and terribly so when feeling his or my self threatened one resting and rising in the flesh and hard bone of a thirty stone and ill-murderous fiend. Look now, his hands? I had them imported at great expense from Turkia where each removed a day before death from a famed throttler it took a double pot of cunning to see them so preserved. The Throttler indeed, For the Pash his self. Or her self. I confess, your differences bore me and I, snickerly, your Doctor too! Now this scambling? These acids? Indeed and aye this will hurt.
Window-box town crier, Climbing on the ivy. Windy roof-top weathercock. War-blooded on a cold tile. Snickerly so and don’t cry, don’t cry.  


  1. You can tell that it's actually Mr Moths who is the real power behind that partnership. :)

  2. Typical, eight years at cat college and they still talk to the oaf. Stop looking at my oaf, look here - up here. Yes, 'fuck me it's the cat', I should snickerly hope so.