poetry, art, magazine

Robert Miles
Steamy Holiday Fiction

Ooh, not even. He languid like rolled in the itching grass blades, caking mud onto dried layers from previous gravity tests, the earlier fields offering the thick damp dirt like a suit offers deals. The sky remained a pale thin grey, patterned with blotches of darker clouds, like a unwashed shirt collar. Not even a boat would win in this situation. Knees clicking, he uprighted himself suddenly enough to cause a dizziness in his upper head,
a daring headrush, a minor indulgence, and retrieved his clothes from the wooden fence, not 10 feet away but 16. As he buttoned his shirt he gazed up through the Pollock painting pattern of bare branches and pondered, letting his mind slip into screen saver:
Lorry lights, water tight and ducks like tow trucks, effortlessly pulling one another round with thick chains. The shattered remains of a bandit's break in, walls painted and riches taken. Commemorative shadows, made sand, and tokens. they're mean little flakes.
Redressed, he climbs the clothes rack fence and progressed over further fields to the dirty thirty mile an hour road.
True to life story! Only made with the finest of fabrics, and wet between the toes. Automatic hair cuts, boxes + boxes + 11 towels. Ignorance in it's purest form. Chump. Dope. Breasts like baker's rolls from the butchers. No candles, it's a late sunet tonight. And finally trundles the awaited bus. he boards.