Hop and Drybiscuit

Mr. Hop is held fast in a hole in the ground. Earwigs dangle from his ears, but they are not afraid.
Mrs. Drybiscuit analyses stars. Combined, they are the marching sound of frogs' spawn; separated, they induce migraine in the hearts of singing rams.

I lift a daffodil. Beneath it there is nothing but a bone. I wish for a parcel of straw and get a liquid sausage, lit with the lucent dream of fireflies. Time massages the maidens who count calories. I find it hard to remember the songs of the distant hand. Awaiting the sublime my mind conceals the inward speech of beauty; I'm so undone I couldn't even eat my weight in gold. The balustrade is lined with ringing blades. I press my ear to one and hear the breath of dinosaurs encased in brick. The seasons stamp the ashes of our whining with a bloodless sign. The maggot art runs a golden word right through me, sublimating all that comes my way; my revelation's mindful of the inward beauty of speech.

Dead Head

"I wonder if the young appreciate The Dead?"

It is the first time the chap across from me has spoken, and his question is not wholly inappropriate, as we are currently listening to The Grateful Dead. I stroll across to him, lift his glasses and direct a fine spray of spittle into his eye, at which he blushes. Tiny crystals form at the tips of his lashes and scatter when he blinks, dispensing a brief scent of thyme.

The wooden bird in the corner lifts its wings and rolls its Rs. It drops an egg that hits the ground with a sharp crack. A breath of wind lifts everyone's fringes for a moment or two.

"I have not been summoned" intones the man before me. He sticks out a silvered tongue. In its reflection I see two bells, dangling discretely within the cavities of his nose, remaining soundless for want of clappers. He quickly retracts his tongue and fills the space with an imitation of the sound the bells might have made. I don't believe I've been a catalyst in these events. I simply take notes and observe the ties severed by the razor's fall.

When a fly alights upon the wall and unfurls an eye with which to study us all, it observes silence because it knows the fruitlessness of commotion. When it lifts a finger to ratchet a jaw it does so in the knowledge that the truth of piety is inequity and that morality is naïvety dressed up in finery. So it holds its tongue. Black lambs yawn where hatred and the need to be seen are entwined.

I tumble over my own words, am caught by a lifeless thought; arrested! The lining of my shoes becomes trapped in the nerves of the dimmer switch, and when darkness falls it does so with the rush of wheels in silk.

Through the window an arm reaches and fumbles with the lock of the door, though there is no key and the fingers are too big and awkward to switch the latch. The hand whirls about itself in an imitation of decisiveness. It's playing with the nurturing light of storms.

I make a dash for the door. No-one tries to stop me. When I throw it open and enter the room the hand ceases its motion and stares directly at me without blinking. I blow it a kiss and the Dead Head climbs out the window with a big bag of marbles clenched between his teeth.