Hurricane for the Soul (D2D

OUR GRANDPARENTS ARE CHEAP PINE COFFEE-TABLES

"age is no longer respected in the human,

but what is fascinating is that we confer respect

on objects-inanimate the older they become."

joan is placed in the centre of my living room

above an IKEA rug purchased from the

warrington store. Joan was bought from

the same IKEA store. she is part of the

human-living range. her birth certificate

guarantees an age of 70 years.

we have had joan for

nearly a year.

she balances coffee very well.

i like to rest my feet on her,

the dog likes to sleep under her,

i cannot say what the cat does to her.

visitors remark on how well joan

compliments the room. that makes me happy.

i hope george is ok with joan.

george is my easychair. he is also

part of the human-living range,

bought from the same IKEA store.

when guests stay, george can be extended

to fit two comfortably, although he has a

tendancy to creek during the winter months.

both are fed on crackers, which reduces waste

considerably. fortunately, i have little to do

with refuse—billy takes care of that department,

though i am curious as to who takes care of billy's

department, if you understand my meaning.

sometimes i hear them scheming,

the specifics i know not,

but i have an idea.

IKEA assure me this will not happen.

i trust IKEA, despite the fact after

assembling joan, an included component

that seemed to have function, lay there unused.

initially, i blamed myself, even though the

product sounded secure.

i placed the unused round thing

on the mantelpiece, allowing mind to rest,

hoping joan wouldn't collapse one day

while the dog lay napping underneath.

i lost the instructions to billy.

unable to set his parameters, i often

find him next door hoovering up shit

from glenda's pomeranian.

glenda finds this funny.

i do not.

joan seemed quite petrified last tuesday.

application of polish revealed tremendous

yellow-blue tincture.

no more crackers for joan.

billy will be pleased.

Hurricane for the Soul is a distortion of backend maisonette culture, continually troubled and fascinated by everything. You'll find him up North working on his debut, temporarily entitled NO SNAILS HARMED. It's a fictionalised truth melding poetry, prose and jagged sentence. It arc-lamps scraps of his life, 'attacks on pop' channelled with powerful voodoo magic and other works recently described as "porphyritic; mixing analogue with digital, shit with piss and come with blood" to produce a compact, an opus, a start-line made with words on 100% paper.

Dance to Death, Issue VI