The spectre of Stalin violating mummy's radio.

A polliwog incensed by the lies of the moon.

Crows openly boasting of their sexual prowess.

Quite an odd yearning is exploiting a gallstone.

The Earth lost to the voice of a golden bullet.

A boy-child who dwells within his own reflection.

A star fallen, diamonds for footsteps, birdcalls for breath.

Mad-assed cancer returning to the cavemouth.

The maid of seven forests stewing a bomb.

A sprig of asparagus, as seen from the Hubble telescope.

War, containing a number of secondary skirmishes.

An unleashing of your once-hidden abilities.

Tragic circumstances, vis-à-vis the kerosene lamp.

A fleet of jets and string of private islands.

An imam's personal audience with El Papa.

Insubstantial sunshine threatening a red feather.

A thousand year long slumber in a darkling forest.

Armies of Pan scampering under thick brushwood.

The night-terrors, searching house to house in satin slippers.

A dream that's partly an angel and partly a beast.

Trying on that spare expression, the one with the grin.

They've spent all morning painting death's portrait.

Warming little pink stones by the woodstove's open grate.

Reach for your eye-glasses, you filthy great ape.
An entire litany of interruptions unfolding pleasantly.

In the coal pit of your heart, an eye clenching its buttocks.

A sinkful of dishes complaining about the scarcity of grunions.

Beginning the arduous task, Marie, of dialing directly.

If you should feel a nap coming on, commence writing.

Bloody heck, they've made it as simple as A B 3.

The insomniacs are requesting a word in your ear.

A monosyllabic Slav writing letters he later fails to address.

Never mind the tiny typhoon and horse in the bath.

Handing over the soul and self to luxuries.

Franz eventually accepted his life was indeed kafka-esque.

An event taking place on any number of levels.

Push aside that old bouffant, that dirty bent thing.

Paying heed to the naked fish and girl juggling hot worms.

Attempting to dissuade the burning illusionists.

The state trooper who believes himself an agent of a vengeful Lord.

Regard the fifty foot rumours while keeping to the path.

On the curriculum, a three course meal of Devil's Laughter.

Ignore the bells' infectious yawn and the fiery Titans.

Looking into the Mudusa's eyes, but just a quick glance back.

The foolish notion of screaming stars and dreamy heirlooms.

Utter ruination hovering a foot off the ground.

A passing wind handed down daughter to daughter.

Overbearing moonshine causing lousy radio reception.

God sending his trousers out to be mended and pressed.

Two chickens being kept apart in wonder.

Grabbing one end of the wishbone and tugging like hell.

A dimension more blatantly ridiculous than this one.

A recipe for mud wine: Like drinking fire.

Bad attitude's poster-boy, and his rude awakening.

A kitten in despair and dad's mauve slivers.

The leech-trappers, famous for their insatiable curiosity.

Rumours of big hair going round, yet to be proven.

Communications via the odour of burning popcorn.

It's this year, but everything looks like last year.

Discomfiting, like a stranger's tongue in your mouth.

One of those notions best kept to itself.

There he was, browsing abundant Gaia's generous bounty.

Your mother, the once-darling pin-up of Battalion C's.

Crushing peach pits under your arm, the television blaring.

Great cotton! Go fetch the ouija board. Let's ask them.

Making sense, although a bit late in the morning.

Not only would that be a waste of time, it's not very sporting.

A few quick rounds before a long liquid lunch at the club.

Taking the unusual step of channeling benign spirits.

A fig tree being made equivalent to roach droppings.

The monkey's uncle pointing a broken finger at the sun.

A four year old who thinks he's a dinosaur.

Newton munching on an apple while crunching numbers.

Nary a mention in the papers about the upheaval in Atlantis.

My feet in the sewer, my head in the can.

A poem that's a contract with the follies of Man.

Behold, the ineffable; the mind-egg badly cracking.

Poor souls, beginning with nothing and ending with less.

Sounds either like ice on the moon or they're toying with nature.

Thanks for the radon gas, it's gone right to my head.

Pawing the interior, as such; giving it the whole monkey.

Before you proceed into the spider's lair, pack sandwiches.

A yearning in your loins – or a dead fish in the aquarium?

A sky-shape, the official explanation hardly jiving with reality.

Heated, debate, rumours on the web, smoky backroom discussions.

Dining on quails' eggs, the thing disappeared in several directions.

The man from Coca-Cola is here to see you.

Giving your toothpaste tube the evil eye.

Trading in two used Chaucers for a brand new Dante.

Coming over all plural in a singular world.

Please excuse the minister, he needs to water his lawn.

A sob-story's bloodline banished to the Georgian steppes.

A real pain, writing about pleasure.

You really shouldn't be here without your hat and your pants.

A data broker now, he'll never forgive the evil axis.

There's always some ague or bad tooth niggling.

You wouldn't send a duck out on a night like this.

A mysterious dustpan, it's behaving ludicrously virginal and coy.

Clouds marring the sunsets, ruining a sultry evening.

Quit dithering and focus on your trail of regrets.

Hidden in plain sight behind an apple seed.

A vague impression best kept under your hat.

A country disguised as an ice-cream headache.

With just this candle, there's little refuge under the hour.

Buckwheat flour, but with incorrect postage.

A microdot next to the lint in Gabrielle's watch-pocket.

The sixth little piggy, and David's stone too.

Opening a wine bottle while shutting a door.

Two bishops racing against eternity.

Your checkerboard gladly dashing into harm's way.

Oh my, History plotting its uncool treasons.

Time being fractured, metal screaming against metal.

A world on fire, and the coop's latch is still frozen.

Brains and golden cities trailing down a drain.

One infinity rubbing another infinity the wrong way.

The wheels are gutted and the guts have to go.

To weary easily, plotting the felicities of woe.

Mad as a rat, but they've somehow managed to sin.

Please understand this; they can't stand standing.

Upon this circle Thor planted the point of origin.

A grown adult, but struggling with their laundry hamper.

The hand of possibility fighting probability's clasp.

The suicide of nature.