flute my outer bite bite
likes taking in gulping that
sit the glass, rattle offence
stuff discs lives pen in love to
you the sound snaps open
loud seam, the people here
finish, holy crooked rain.
grow out from you. Grow breasts,
how come the middle road, us,
drunk, uncomplies. Robes
of righteousness, we were meant
this could only hunt the dumb
those uncompiled the waste
of paradise. Meant for us straight
oils bagged up. Pass over sexy.
Every time you speak a bleep comes
out you don’t want that I don’t
mirror stitch, the train goes
over the bridge„ your mouth
turn out. You close down
immediately I am pleased with
your close, close to wreck this
the shit day, exact flower lion.
You om just squeeze that om scan
om hint hint. / health waning
her is as flower scar squat
mouse teeth at ended feet
crap. Is that as that a jay
organ. Lightning wrong
to appendix, squirt quid
sugar, little children, rubbers.
There are signs around the
office that food should not be
consumed on shift time. Someone
is caught out, and during the public
disciplinary procedure notices
that on the warning sign there
is a clip art depiction of a burger
and a fizzy drink struck through.
This is funny. She has even her diet
evaluated but has now on a third
warning lost her job. Now, in theory
she can eat anything at all. She
goes out, gets a burger, struck out.
There are people
/ in your contradicting
/ racist subcategories
the air you breathe over
terminal solids„ actions.
Who they are, show them, how
must I feel. We called a ballad
inactive, went up with the angels.
i love scratching my skin„
arms and legs„ pulling it out
from under my nails, mixed with
the rash cream, to make a meat
patty, I feed it to the spiders,
/ Check your privilege.
I love / scratch the inactive.
Bite a hole in the head of the fig,
hold your headache in your hands
when you how it’s bleed done
RSJ hatecore. Yoko should; if
the stone is alive
I shove every itch my face
is liable to receive crashing
lilies of this in deep black / pink fibre.
Because of snake skin, because
of God. Because it is more
the football fields, The People
on ships or those under
water. My dearest friend died
just yesterday he was left
the noise at position 1 the
end . What will I do
when you leave the room
open come back onto the rails
cracking with clay at
the points. Stem sem,
come closer. Picture the silver apple.
Clicked in, clicked in, clicked in,
what is sisters? Big grassy
slime mold cut me to pieces.
I have nine brothers, I have no
cancels! There’s not enough sadness
and machines in my love nest.
I want your mouth lips wrapped
about mine. Cough in my gum snot.
The whole earth closing into cold
compress the heart in a bundle
of straw, fuck it straight
let the roots gutworm ye
you sickly think of the women
who do this going to do secret
acts in the curtain folds, sardines
in a 30s drama, venus crash, Ethel out.
The earth is heavy hanging on
its orbit because people
are living longer meaning
their ears grow bigger and mass
production is / in possible fact possible
as skin cloaks every object
starting at product base
the drums are huge we hear the sharp
impending alert ears, RIP you
My. Best. Friend. Dead.
Cleave to the waste at the shutdown
apt. Can you hear this, Rosannagh?
The point, then, was an un-queer
annexe micro point. Being water
a jade firm glides over us there
hanging from the Lamp’s mane
the expressive form has moved
away from the anger fist,
the muddy field and car at dawn
and the sardine muted; sorry.
The height of your smile that I did
love you somehow the end as valid
have you all cases, hand your
clasp„ lockwise do to it, over all this.
Millionth hash blade
a place form
gazed lit swallow,
cup screw. There are you
now we’ll scrawl
shit or miss.
Hello, dawn tide apocalypse. The
back of you filled scrapping
the eye of your flag clod. Any
ending is a reflex, true,
the temper of the moment’s
urn. And do not follow the path
of the man who says that;
an ending is configuration meaning
the change / of torn and that
the chance is closer he hates
the sound of the storm kill. Jut.
The next viewing killed me:
I was, Brothers Grimm.
Now back in the room with the riser.
The lie is a six mile radius patch
the room smiles, a bio-marker
little flag what’s the big idea.
Federal Electric, my life argues
it is no place. Show the rabbit
to the dog.
Back now in the riser room
the lie in a six mile radius
the room smiles a bio-
marker what’s the little flag
idea. Federal Electric, my life
agrees, show the rabbit to the
hound, the now place.\
Upkeep dispersal via rain vat tactics.
Hair rags dopamine stop un-drastic
trop lyre„ age dirts. Maze to
slip, rigour to point, spavined
wing / salt salt. Dig down boy
fortified, amendment slay, come
immure at dusk down target
to. Value pledge wrong very is
now a lot down, silly boy!
Dig deep. Your kiddie hands thru.
Tickled in daylit
warm, the pulse of the micro
mark, electric riser
make the wrong vocal rise
sing, there there choice
there cunt inline
Mavis in the hot sand
it’s an apple an apple
Mavis, tommy gun.
End of the world
more call the
end, world end-
ing, sore ssoorree„
By salt loss by bio blunder
by loss measure out the web
salt ginger. Let alone cuff me,
gaggle of & & cuff me the whips
answerable – no name, date of
outcome. We always predict
the end of use. We mean
that by campaign , sell from
the worst outcome. Radios
the bastard says all life is
terminal; sharpens his crop, walks
to the swamp, claims all
the steel, makes an adaptor
all by yourself. Fuck.
The universe is just putting us on.
Handing us a line. You there,
awash ginger, pulmonary faint
the hall musicless but what
proceeds in the mush image
you are. Eyes absolutely fucking
fall in this harsh near-light
cleave punk, pancake smoke
Nice face. Nice in.
The sound of paper tearing
is the sound of paper blowing.
The Chipping Norton Apocalypse cult
out in the screaming yard,
the sick bench.
like the cold
cold electric rise
Smoke about the wheel do like
Rose, call the state of snow
of thick mud , times were we’d hold
tight waist, elliptical front; to early Spring.
The prequel to this set can be found in Litmus magazine
Verity Spott is 18 years old and lives in Cleethorpes. They have published the books ‘Effort to No’, ‘My Lost 2, My Bent 3’ and ‘Dear Nothing and No One in it’ (with Jonny Liron). Verity is a full time waiter and musician, and has played in 11.5 venues in the first half of a career. You can reach Verity with your concerns or questions at email@example.com. The poems in this magazine are the anima to a set that can be found by Ashley French in Litmus magazine.