by Thomas Blake

We tried the cryptic crossword

in an attempt to wake the beast


outside, ginger biscuits sludged in a tray

and offal, somewhere, was being thrown off a truck

with a sound that resembled a wet kiss or two

and the grunting of men dressed entirely in white

(what’s that about?) for you. A bald fella’s head


passes the window; the street croaks under the rain:

what passes for ambivalence is often desire. If

you listen hard enough. Is it possible to apply

anything cosmetic to the cracks

in the road?


If you think about it, there is a hidden mycelium, which,

asses, cranes its billion necks to see the future and the rule

of the rude: bills of blackbirds snap off in the putty earth

and a mole sasses through the whole shebang. Larvae


bubble. The bloom on a plum turns

out to be athlete’s foot spray.