“Guv, biscuit courier down on the east side of town, crumbs everywhere!” He was thinking about yoghurts, I could tell. “Guv!” We sped through the streets like the fire brigade. A duty officer met us in the shadow of the old caramel factory, ducking under the tape that had been stretched around the crime scene. “Sirs, I think you’d better see this.” We quickly identified the shot-up body of the victim. “Gigi Raspute!” Yes, this was serious. Continue reading
troubled marina, you lack
the carefree effortlessness
of other marinas I have known.
perhaps I just did not know
them as well as I know you.
sweat, wet sweat and dry sweat and all the sweats in between, ran from the thick moustache which was correctly placed on a moustachioed gent on court number four. Continue reading
as he tried to reach sleep, a moustachioed gent listened to the sounds of his stomach in the blinding darkness bowels of night. like fireworks, just when he thought he had heard the last, another followed. the reorganisation of his insides seemed to carry on until he finally stooped to snowblind dreams.
“brekkfus,” he growled as war pigs rode from his black sabbath alarm clock the next gloomily apocalyptic morning. he padded downstairs in his dressing gown and through the cultured clutter of his kitchenette to the backyard. it was high tide on his doom-laden moustache, the waxing moon bright in the sky holding sway as the hair surged up his face in waves. Continue reading