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Baffling, erudite, funny, vertiginously bizarre, digressive, obsessive, eccentric and poignant. Hooting Yard the home of legendary pamphleteer Dobson, Blodgett Marigold Chew, home of the picnic for detectives and location of the palace of Hoon.A splendid place, much cake is eaten there.Written and presented by Frank Key.
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A sunken raft of weeds woven into a verdant morass of sound, song and story. Broadcast on London's Resonance FM every Thursday, Into the Moss is a 14 minute drift through original music, soundscapes and liminal yarns.
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Roots rooting seasons. Body sacks sup the coffee. The stroganoff blues.
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Dive into the folds, annihilation awaits Prig floating in the pool.
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Rise from shore to sky, evaporated opera. Dissolve in water.
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A door-whisperer, hiding the resident truth, praise for the shut door.
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Emerald gardens tilt towards the dying sun, as visitors fall.
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Fingers guide this one, digits point with urgency. Idiot for sale.
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Smashed into living. Empty my bags, architects! Get out of the house!
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Support systems down, mum and dad are orphans now. Sob amongst yourself.
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Resolute harness. Familial bonds transplant hair. Daughter risen high.
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Inheritance chokes, released like flatulent guests. Regret at all cost.
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Homes built for shelter; technologies buried low. She swallowed a cat.
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Brawling figures judge, fear fearing a fearful drug. All symbols deranged.
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Now’s the spider’s turn: A facile reduction, up the chelicerae.
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The village hall waits, all the while nothing happens. There is so much pain.
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Web-bound surveillance, karmic cycle's swift return, silk-spinner draws near.
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Definitely, the Pencilman’s virility. Certainly it is.
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With Obsidian, fault's with the candidate, or there's no fault at all.
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Bouncing room to room, I crack the frigid coffin, play the circus post.
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Yes, I've said some things. Lord knows what they could have been. The fruit of my hat?
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Carefully, I stacked teetering paper towers on the dead staircase.
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Alchemical balls: swearing’s not big or clever, even in your head.
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The red-flag woman, tweed-sleeved arm outstretched, spraying: "dogs are mist's princes".
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Car-to-car living. Lemonade fever dreams fail. Give back my money.
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Dark across the brow, the fields are met by fingers scratching in the dirt.
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The world went to pot, because you did not donate to the fundraiser.
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Pulped sardines on bread, shelter for the yuppie bones, huddled in the hall.
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The decks creak with a litany of transgressions. Judgement mans the helm.
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Worlds as yet untapped, backwash over this charcoal (quantum forest sketch).
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See the Nightingale whirr to where the air is thin. Wait for what will be.
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Don't give me all that "la-di-da-di-da", I'm sick of people like you.
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Retching, I'm pulled back to the frozen underpass, animals snorting.
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Voices from the past scatter through the open door, that you left ajar.
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Listen to the sound of stilts tottering across the banquet table.
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Eyes play on pages, photos in the unlit hall. Fell asleep again.
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Bulging bloodshot eyes, born too soon to be shuttered. A throng congregates.
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Silent aftermath of cats nurtured by insects. The dust of ages.
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Engaged Listening Skills For Workplace Efficiency: It's a fragile snare.
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Ignore the voices and listen to the morning. Give another chance.
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In coveted chair, microdosing ethanol, salad haunts me still.
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O hungry hunter, climb the stairs of the taste buds, and eat the city!
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Dad's breathy whistle Mists the cool chrome trim of the Austin A40.
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Chris, a name mispissed, eliciting unconcern from authority.
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Time is a phantom, unmasked in the final chime, as nothing at all.
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Impenetrable street of limitless bakers, bread on top of bread.
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Colour comes to bear, On the things that we have lost, Naked in wonder.
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Unveiled hues observed. Francesca's work reassigned. Truth seen in strange light.
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Canvas visions bloom, chaos amidst the tableaux, the gallery creaks.
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Telephone dial up audiobook with fragments by Brittney Fleming
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Boxes and grey chairs. Silent faces, piled up limbs. Thursday's grim demise.
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At waking’s threshold, lifted by the breathing land, cell-bound dreams take flight.
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