Published 'Black Lotus' 1993

            The knurls in Nancy's lucky stone each told of a lover, past, present and future.  Dandiprats, taint-worms, chuck-farthings, gutterbloods, bowel-priers, dizzards, dumb-cakes and the many afterwitted, gag-toothed individuals too many to mention let alone remember  -  all claimants to Nancy's fan-nerved hand.  One crack-brained cuttlebone  -  a real down-drug of a loafer who sported a cauliflower-wig  -  often toted a muck-fork to his moon-blasted allotment where he over-bred turnip-flies and turf-hogs.  Another lick-spigot, with engored nostrils and an ever-cruddled nose-cloth, waded the poachy, mouldery creeks, an eaves-drip stuff-chest of a man, who wielded his lust-fired ripping-tool like the other did his muck-fork.  The two fought a duel, but both were victorious and the quick-grass soon covered the ten-bones of their pleading hands  -  smileful ends, at least for Nancy,  Then, of course, there was that yerk of a Riddler: a near-legged dingle-dangler of a fellow who loomed through the autumn air-threads, just as Nancy was feeding her stilt-plovers.  Being a slouchy, venom-mouthed ink-maker, he daubed jokes all over the vitrifiable surfaces of her cottage with the by-blows of ear-picks  -  smearing myrrhine peccancies and pretty-spoken verjuice from elfin veinlets upon her jut-windows and steam-domes.  Even his spinal-brace became salamandrine.  But this gobble-gut of a Riddler was a drunkenner on quince wine and thus suffered torrified hunger-rot.  Nancy was skeery.  She removed the demonifuge from below her cot, played the magic tomtom and spellful strumstrum and yearned for yesterfang's lovers.  All would be forgiven them.  But the black-browed Riddler took his blubber-spade and belaboured her.  During the Rag fair, beside the worm-wheel down by the whipple-tree, they were wed.  Soon, however, the Riddler caught a dose of pug-piles from another lover's left-over nostrils and died of rhinal panspermia of the temper-screw.  Not even bubblyjock could get the riddles going again.  Nancy felt she had no option but widow-sacrifice.  The Ox-boy who ever sat in the nettle-tree promised to make her a tesselated grave with her lucky knurled stone as headpiece.  The Ox-boy was an orange-pea of a pitcock and would have made the best lover of all, if it were not now too late.  And us witherlings can only weep  -  as the Ox-boy, after polishing one knurl in particular, placed the very last mauve mosaic upon her angel-bed. 

            It was a pity Nancy never understood the words.