Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryFor: Edith Södergran Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFagan or scrooge Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFilter out the dreamless, sleepless dark Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryEnd of day’s that's what I bequeath Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFlightless angels shall fervently stare Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryEven the cuckoo has to find its layer... Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryEgotistic eccentric things like this… Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryForever autumn Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFumbling for words... Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryFollow my coat tails... Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFor as molten metal bound are we not in the magma Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryEx-Streams of consciousness’ Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFor all the worlds caring—we’ve done! Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryFrom A to Z Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryFor you Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryDivergent rivers Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryDispatching doves Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFEAR... Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryDivisions of vanity Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryEpée duel? Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryFor a short time—only?! Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago
StoryEverest Mark Heathcote111 years 8 months ago
StoryFinger on the pulse Mark Heathcote011 years 8 months ago

My stories

You’re not middle aged yet you think?

Old age then your back aches Becomes a viaduct arch of pain Foundation’s get subsidence You lose 10inches all elegance In thought your opinion’s tower

Crab apple…

We've all sunken teeth into a sour ball. Aghast at its bitter depths of beauty, Hidden too appal like human nature. Loves no different than this tutti-frutti These golden orbs halve rouge with pith They're shrunken skull's a coffins core. With a taste like a dead suns zenith, O tang of death it's rancorous, tariff.

Sunday papers

Now the coffeepot has gone cold. I can see it clearly in her eyes, There’s no more steam or caffeine Demerara sugar or cream… There are no more shortcake biscuits,

Treasure me like a desert sun

Treasure me like a desert sun Take me for all the sap you can. Be my cacti, my lover pricking Every nerve end till I (…wan!) Oh I’ll make olive oil at dawn

Wardrobe-skeletons

The perils of wardrobe-skeletons Holding keys to abandoned souls. And hearts covered with lesions… Rattling in self-confining asbos Is a self-abuse shadowy iceberg?

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