mark.atkins1@nhs.net

(musk) show all


Aged paper (or|arr)anged. The obelisk that collapses and is rebuilt every time you cross into a new age group in survey questions. Adornments simultaneously unique and crass, defunct formats, songs from your keys are apparitions of anticipation, bankruptcy.

My scene is unsubstantiable. My scene is schizoid comfort in the avoidance of the latest on Netflix. My scene is not what your scene ever will be.

Within a man like me, women are real and a few corrupt the fabric of existence. Flutterlogic aligning ambition obtusely, dignity degraded wilfully. Markers of the past and execution of relation.

The calligraphy of your fringe wipes ink in my ego and sketching what already I know I want to yield, blinds by complacency. Hunger, fail respiration momentum. (U|Mis)sed stayful dislocation completes noveau permutations a delicate art.


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