My Diary

I raced out of the front door with mountain bike earrings. I picked up a plain brown envelope of flying saucers for the dog’s forbidden planet and crash landed in my studio after orbiting the town centre playing a Moog synthesizer like a million monkeys accidentally typing the entire works of Shakespeare. I soon found my feet and shortly afterwards found my hands as well. I incised a hundred different nome de plumes on the trunk of a baobab tree before June came in wrestling with a new poodle hair style; I took the dog out for a walk while she went to find a hat. She left the house again with me following some way behind holding the edge of a large cardboard box like the train of a wedding dress for an invertebrate bride.

My Diary

Apart from a short trip to find cabbage leaves to stitch together to make a dress I stayed indoors. The outside was turning itself inside out like a starfish eating and the furniture from the house next door was lined up on the grass; I felt sure if someone issued the command they would all start to dance. Before climbing the jaw like stairs I searched my pockets for numbers; apparently I can only make modest calculations and any algebra will have to wait until the weekend. My studio was full of lights; apart from an unlucky few fly trapped between the window pane and net curtain they were hovering in a cluster several feet from where the cat had recently clawed the ground. I worked out a route and then carefully followed it, touching the picture surface quite early in the day.

My Diary

I had to go out for a family meal; June who had inadvertently got herself trapped in a hypodermic syringe – along with several billion influenza bugs – came along later. My sister and I recalled the days of horse driven mail coaches at the railway station and then met my father inside a motorised banana skin; we had to peel the banana to get him out. I drunk the contents of a horn last blown by Roland and then dipped my fingers in a tar pit to tickle a sabre toothed tiger under the chin – it later escaped like most memories usually do. After the meal we walked around the farmers market picking at pieces of corn and making words on the floor; my father rode away in a vehicle made entirely of consonants while we followed the trail of vowels back home.

My Diary

The secret agent in me was uncovering a plot as I walked the dog along a row of front doors, one of which was open even though all the back doors were closed. After watching Europa escape carrying the bull I went back to the house to make classical columns out of gothic liquorice. I worked in the black ruins as much of the day as I could; the children outside happily making a moon out of the contents of a skip and me making an eclipse out of a significant stream of coincidences. As the light began to dim I heard the children again in a tree, not as high as me when I was young but still able to reach out and unzip an old wall to reveal a new wall inside. A tortoiseshell cat walked the entire length of the new wall for a fuss even though all the man with a walking stick could offer was an empty glove.

My Diary

I had a lay in on the bed of a circular saw (three thousand, seven hundred revolutions a minute), frantically trying to recall the shreds of the dreams I had just had. June had risen sometime earlier to watch a trestle table climb the stairs unaided; the cat, who had been asleep on the computer keyboard pressed the escape key and all the skeletons in the cupboard turned to dust. I put the table up with small electric fans forming satyr horns on my chest of drawers forehead. We had to go out, so June laid out the cutlery for an invisible meal while I picked up all the clothes which had performed as extras in the action film shot outside. I met all the other cast members up the road and we pretended to be vampire werewolves again. I was also a merman bear dog.

My Diary

I wasn’t up early even though a shark fin slid through the bed with an advert for a local pizza house emblazoned in its side. I walked the dog as the meat filling in a sandwich and then June went to town pushing a pram with a large head in it; she rang up later to talk about the leg of a lamb – I imagined it in a black stocking even though I am a strict vegetarian. In the middle of the day I pushed my head into a screen and felt the fresh snow on my face; the tide came in as the sun came out – I set a step ladder up in front of it and imagined the annunciation in the subsequent shadow. Standing beside the curtain in the window I thought up a story while the lady with light houses on her chest put herself out immediately after the ship had hit the rocks.

My Diary

I was up very early and followed June up the darkened road, overtaking her where the bridge grows a forked tongue. I crept up moving stairs while a reincarnation of Florence Nightingale handed out lamps on the lower deck. After a stop off in lee of a giant’s armpit I found myself in a photo album being peered over by people with sunsets in their eyes. I talked at length to the old king and then left beside a man with an elephant head; I carried his suitcase rather than his trunk and we talked in Italian before the local bus recounted its first trip though a snow covered landscape. When the barefoot dancers emerged from a flat white sky I dedicated a love poem to the demise of Shanklin Pier – June came home later with wet feet.