Mark Heathcote

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryTen For The Ten Commandments (IP) well-wisher914 years 3 weeks ago
StoryNicknames for Aislinn Mark Heathcote414 years 6 months ago
StoryLove is the drug shoe814 years 6 months ago
Storyplease (don't ) marry me! shoe1514 years 6 months ago
Storythe affair shoe1314 years 6 months ago
StoryNo two people Mark Heathcote214 years 10 months ago
StorySpring Fever jennifer214 years 10 months ago
StoryEunectes Murinus Anna Marie314 years 11 months ago
StoryToothless Wander lenchenelf914 years 11 months ago
StoryHow royally Avant-garde am I? Mark Heathcote115 years 1 month ago
StoryNearly human (again) Nick.A315 years 3 months ago
StoryDo the British take their brollies? Mark Heathcote615 years 5 months ago
StoryVII Stanzas Mark Heathcote215 years 5 months ago
StoryA Lovely Day Jupiter1815 years 6 months ago
StoryThe Trouble with Grace Silver Spun Sand3015 years 7 months ago
StoryChaosity Kills jennifer216 years 4 weeks ago
StoryPenetrates jennifer116 years 4 months ago
StoryThe music of one’s love is deaf and dumb Mark Heathcote316 years 4 months ago
StoryA Cautionary Tale MistakenMagic216 years 7 months ago
StoryIn these cormorant hours spent swift Mark Heathcote216 years 8 months ago

My stories

Ex-Streams of consciousness’

Eternal life is a blank page... In a diary that goes unwritten. Life is an entry in that diary-page That continues daily to be written. The universe therefore is a library

Peace on a bough never withers

As is, has been, has will be seen All that is night is day File at the prison-bars, light the gasoline! Death is indifferent, anyway. Pies need a crust; a dog its lust.

A poetic exile

What is there to berate Life—for: Why equate It has not any meaning..? Every sap that’s shelled-out The husk, longs further, seeding. “Every breath a water-spout

What we worship guides our thirst...

“Only he God can charge or judge The ink, that pores-out its blood. That algae-spore” of each, dreams-drudge, That made its way—out; from the crud.

38 yrs—on,

As my eyes now fixed abysmally Ahead of some far distant point Way-down Market Street, Piccadilly Time lurches-on, takes my viewpoint

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