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Randolph Healy |
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THE GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT IN THEIR ORIGINAL PACKING EIGHT RUSSIAN DOLLS THE OM IN REMOTE THE NOT IN CONTROL
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THE
GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT IN THEIR ORIGINAL PACKING
It’s great to be alive said the long-lived man sticking 85 self-photos to his window, facing out. His spittled son lurked by the lavender still smarting from a run-in with a raven-haired artist – fatherly, gifted, a looker. Earlier, a gang of ones chatted as he whittled, he lit by their giggles, they frozen as he pranged a dove one was toting. He showed his face then headed off, the wind singing Count the rings when you saw yourself in half. ■ EIGHT RUSSIAN DOLLS a fatling entitled I said fling tinted die: ideas if tide denies disease if id defines rot this splintered tongue trio hints epistle gone erotic things spite ego creation lightens its o ■ THE OM IN REMOTE THE NOT IN CONTROL Not much on telly – polar bears in synchronised drowning lights going out all over a galaxy we can’t choose then out of the blue dredge up Carl and Susie. Countdown began when he faltered and left his knight en pris and she led him, broken, from the tourney. “Go out with a worm,” he said, “they’re full of hearts” then spent the night in a car park – no fuel, no money, the power out. Nine months later she found his molar underneath the bedside table. Ages after, we bumped into him in the post office, all of a frazzle, faking a birth cert for his offshore chattel.
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