by Adham Smart
sprawled in the bad air of
his creation.
He left his alarm-clock
spitting irregularly, left
his walls dripping
with blind fear, left his
bed broken in two halves.
He left in a blunder
of apparition, of flying
paper cranes
that opened paper wings
over his streaming face,
and made nests of
car-crash relics;
hubcaps and broken glass.
Adham Smart is a writer from South-East London who likes to pretend he is a foreigner in his spare time. He also thinks this website is well cool.
The Pygmy Giant 