Lovely Little Restaurant


At a restaurant very near you.

Nearer than you could see, and definitely inward.

There was a carvery of mother and father.

Great little place.

A Sunday carvery.

Very near.

And you’d booked…

and you weren’t disappointed.


Odd little poem

alt="mermaid picture"

I was daydreaming last week and wrote this:

A multicoloured mermaid was drinking herbal tea.
The mermaid was she.

Her weasel-faced opponent sat next to her to see,
if it was really herbal tea,
and not just boiling horses pee.

A waiter in the restaurant where the mermaid drank her tea,
had two, or four, or fourteen legs,
I really couldn’t see.

You see I’d drunk the herbal tea before,
at the request of the Maître d,
but didn’t know that drinking tea,
was not that good for me.

Because I’m not a mermaid,
as all the guests could see,
I shouldn’t drink what I was told,
was really horses pee.

Had fun writing that. Peace Out.


The Receipt

This is an excerpt from a piece I’ve been working on. Feedback is most welcome and I hope you enjoy reading.

Words by Phillip Cogger


This glimpse of a life took place halfway through a conversation between Mrs Annabelle Jackson of no obvious profession and Mr Winkler from the Association of Unusual Actions. The following discussion traversed two reasonably priced telephones.

“You may or may not be able to tell a man by his shopping receipt,” said Winkler down the receiver of an unclean, lavender phone. He held the phone away for exactly two seconds to inspect the receiver for remnants of a messy lunch. He heard each second pass on the watch that bound his wrist, spying the traffic from his yellow-walled office.
“Can I ask why you’re calling?” replied Mrs Annabelle Jackson, her hair in curlers and the evidence of a Waldorf salad on her bottom lip. “Hang on. I have a good mind to put the phone down.”
“This may seem a strange call Mrs Jackson. But I have nothing against your husband. Nor do I shun the free and democratic world we all expect to inhabit when we push the sheets back of a morning. None of that is the question.”
“You are a strange and baffling man Mr Winkler. And what is the question?”
“The question is the list.”
“Oh that again. Run it for me one more time.”
“Cookie dough; 12 triple A batteries; National Geographic (x 1 copy); 1 set of Prestige kitchen knives; 5 boxes of long-stemmed matches; 2 erotic novellas (purchased just before a weekend double-bonus lottery ticket); 2 organic chicken breasts with slight discolouration (probably down to temperature fluctuations during carriage).”
“I want to put the phone down.”
“Then why don’t you Mrs Jackson?”
Mrs Jackson looked at her husband’s certificate of excellence from the Institute of Pristine Acquisitions. She breathed deeply and settled herself into her pea green sofa. For a split second she had a sense of belonging to something beyond her surroundings. “Let’s start again,” she said. “You tell me what you know about my husband, and I’ll sit and think about what you’re saying. Then I’ll decide where this conversation is going.”
“Very powerful of you Mrs Jackson.”
“I suppose you could say it is.”
“But who really has the power in these situations Mrs Jackson?”
“Is that a question?”
“Let it breathe.”
“Tell me what you know?”
“Mr Terry Felix Jackson moved with above average caution up and down the aisles of the Fresco Metro adjacent to Frippinden Hill council estate in Locksbridge. He had clearly decided that over-packing wouldn’t be the same problem for him as it usually is for others I have witnessed in similar scenarios.”
“Mr Winkler. Terry has always been a careful man.”
“I’m just delivering the facts Mrs Jackson.”
“The time was a month ago in March when the light has a way of not knowing quite what it wants to do.”
“You may be right.”
“It was the 25 March exactly when your husband acquired what is currently being processed as a code 64.”
“An abundance of suspicious contents.”
“Do you dislike my husband?”
“I am neither here nor there on the matter.”
“So why are you calling?”
“Because your husband’s method of domestic replenishment seemed highly irregular.”
“Please clarify.”
“He bought some strange shopping.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t. But subsection fifteen of the customer operations act of 2010 clearly states that any customer who is carrying suspicious items in relative abundance in a manner deemed to be antisocial must be brought to the attention of the authorities.”
Annabelle Jackson drifted off to a time her husband wouldn’t stop kissing her while she tried to cook.
“Mrs Jackson are you there?”
“Pardon Mrs Jackson?”
“Do you believe in the Sabbath Mr Winkler?”
“I think it is a day like any other.”
“Do you know what the world is missing Mr Winkler?”
“What is the world missing Mrs Jackson?”
“Solace Mr Winkler.”

The next day

Mr Winkler is helping Mrs Jackson into the passenger seat of his recently renovated car, a vehicle for which he is known and at times, envied. They head into a purple sunset. Winkler listens intently to Mrs Jackson just as his profession requires, enough to get the bare bones of the life she has lived and the way she has lived it. He appreciates that she has never been in a situation like this before.

Mr Jackson is still being held until the Association of Unusual Actions can decide how to proceed next. Mrs Jackson is being watched in private accommodation for her own safety.

Little thoughts

Little Thoughts

by Phillip Cogger

Life is a cat in sleep.
An ant winding through the intricacies of a modern brick wall.
A woman bound by a chair, passing the net curtains of a lounge.
The body and that organ, the heart.
Dry blood on a wine cooler.

What happened here?
Where are the memories?

Life is the coil of age tightening; the last moments.
The very last.
Not seeing the kids when it happens.
All of these things.
Life is why I watch a boat split the still water.

I can be dizzy.
I can live so hard that death seems a distant nightmare.
When it comes; farewell to vanity.

Watch the cat, the ant and the city.
Watch the cat accidentally weigh itself.
Imagine the cat knows why it did.
Imagine it never happened.

Language of the future

language of the future final

This post is a response to a WordPress challenge to write a piece under the banner of ‘Language of the Future’, so I gave it a go.

Ipsmitch ran at breakneck speed, dropping the golden Shmazz into the underworld of glass shards. Between where they were and every place else the Sandag had petered out.

“Damn straight,” said Shnooze to Ipsmitch, “I’ll get you new Shmazz.”

“I am your brother so quicken your actions.”

“You’ve got me down, that’s your power.”

The pair continued, lowering now, both glowering over the racing glass shards passing this way and that, the panic bloating their veins and cripplicating in their skins. A first shard tore Shnooze’s heel, the pain rippling for a sure second.

“One shard has split the buck,” screamed Shnooze.

“I’ll cover it at speed, sweep in front won’t you?”

Their voices hit the void. Reports of bad clambering held strong in the receivers planted in Ipsmitch’s head. “I don’t care,” he whispered to himself. “I was made for these moments.”

A glint of pure Shmazz was visible, whirling in a fragment of broken Sandag. Shnooze clipped the buck of his heel and piled downforth to the core. He shot behind Ipsmitch who was waverlating, piling even more forwards. They linked hooves and whirled in the Sandag. The unclinching of Schooze’s buck clip began. An indifferent mist poured forward, reversed, then further clambered the Sandag, obscurinizing all signs of the Shmazz. Ipsmitch confirmed his intentions to go in. “Hang round the outer sharp whispers of the Sandag,” he said.

“Credit me by requesting my involvement,” said Shnooze.

Ipsmitch broke from Shnooze, shouting back through the swirling Sandag breakage. “Snap the Shmazz and run whether or not I come back.”

Shnooze didn’t hear with all the violent ramblings of the inner Sandag voluming forth. Ipsmitch rumbled in the mess, sending forth thwacks against the Sandag’s power. The Sandag pinched clumps of Ipsmitch, turning his gizzards to spectaculous swirlfeed. Ipsmitch span in the swirl and belted the Shmazz out towards Shnooze, his face turning to Sandag. As parts of him spuriated into the swirl and were consumed, he glinted the prize being lofted by Shnooze, who parted with a glowing curl of Shmazz.

A hobby for a man

by Phillip Cogger

A perfectly reasonable bird, a Garganey, a small duck. Nothing more than an unflinching, happy duck.

A pale wrist swelters, strangled by a bright gold watch. A pale hand, bulbous from kills, takes the Garganey and squeezes until the ducklings scamper.

The neck breaks, a Garganey dead.

The man walks back through an empty wood where a Garganey dead or alive has never been witnessed. A child with never a bad act to his name plans the demise of the man with a pale, bulbous hand.


by Phillip Cogger

She hadn’t always been a beautiful selfish creature. A few times she helped at a local nursing home where a woman thrice her age dribbled and barked instructions at a piss-soaked carpet. That had been an unselfish day. She was simply beautiful.

She wasn’t prone to epiphanies, but once, when she had been forced to slice chewing gum from her hair, she saw the world as she had never seen it before. The gas stations, granola and instant gravy melted away. The credit ratings, mortgages and electronic tin openers, all gone.

Among the miles of green, blue and yellow she imagined a brand new her, a girl buried in grass. She was surrounded by hundreds of locusts, snapping and feeding away. They churned and swallowed until they reached the earth. Down she felt herself go, the more the locusts ate.