Names echo empty in the Nintendo fortress: world without feeling.

The Honda-ride out for abominable chair-bears always comes too late.

Supermarket sweep until everything is gone; resting in decay.

K3P returns. Tethers us to a jumper, in three-way trousers.

The machine that sends a kiss from the receiver, finally alone.

Breakfast is a goat, and the woodlands drenched in oats – pour the stickiness.

We've been here before: waves chewing the horizon – flatulent climax.

Broken bottles call; thoughts rage under prodded face. Trying to get home.

If I say body, do you need to believe me? It seems to matter.

Saliva dripping upon succulent offerings. Is this how they're washed?