Illustration for Playboy Magazine showing a future of personal aircraft.
Part 1: Contentlin, Tug Me
Tug me o gracious contentlin, I am bound to blush a little and wince a life time.
Meant to. It just sat there soaking. Meant to joust. It sat there still. Meant to parry. There it stood whilst the villagers whisper. Mean to me. While the people named Keith seem to jostle on my shoulder. Meant to nip in the drying rack. While they drip dry. Mean to be patient. While they dry. Meant to call Sally. Sally please.
Part 2 : Behead
Tall Tom beheaded it, lopped off the mind behind this exercise we all did. A walk around the block in the morning. Until it started our backs hurt. Now the one who put it in place ain’t here. Therefore we cower, therefore the rather rosy reign of Sally all ended.
IX. Potent Ore Playing fields
Illustration for The New York Times Book Review of Pure by Julianna Baggott.
Dystopian cheese flavouring crisps finger man has been busy dabbing the rocks. He is walking over to finish the rocks on the right mountain.
I got to do a map. This shows running routes around England and Wales. For Runner’s World Magazine.
Look at the map, travel across my favourite hedge ridden English hills to yours with intent. I have the Adam’s apple so I came round to mend something. You didn’t need me. I don’t like touching my Adam’s apple it feels weird. Wise woman specie told me when packing I should wrap my moisturiser in a plastic bag in case it spills in my rucksack, but I like to live on the edge. Can’t get a seat on the train I crammed myself into the isle, all squashed and my quivering flaky nose wouldn’t stop worrying about the moisturiser spilling. Need to be refreshed on this busy stale air train. Tilt the head back 90 degrees and stick out the tongue. Blow out with might and it will begin to rain a refreshment on your face. Fellow passengers don’t like me any more.
Set of images illustrating each section for a guide on gadgets. Put together by The Daily.
Poised I’m ready to wield my flailing limbs. There is only one place I could be. In the disco and humans want to have a pop with other humanoids. Cramp crusty dance floor it’s clammy, only a thimble full of room to flail. In the olden days they had room to spread engineered eagle eyed choreographed joint bending to the stretching. Sensual shuffling is our best. Tucked away too long on a cluttered cramped world wide web our ideas all the same. Just met Ethel and she supplies streamlined silky small talk questions. I answer them and explain the corner of the web which I’m tucked in, it’s saying nothing to you, I wish it did say something to everyone.
Now I’m trying to get away from you which I’m representing by spouting the word ‘anyway’ at you. He is a stubborn spouter he spouts sharp anyways. He has anyway clout. Now the artists who inspire me walked through the door, I type my login details. Do you look into my compositions as art. I make my textures for Photoshop by scanning in my poo smears on the toilet paper, go on you can trust me I am a fine artist. Anyway my dinner is going cold, anyway my cereal is going soggy.