My Diary

June had a day off work and carefully rolled up her pipistrelle bat ears and then covered them with a hat shaped like a twelve inch vinyl record. I meanwhile hollowed out a log and unsuccessfully attempted to fit the engine nacelle of a Boeing 777 into the washing machine. We went out for dinner, glancing as we did at the still wet washing exiting the house hand in hand. Alexander the Great and a sizeable portion of his Macedonian army went under the railway bridge as we went over it, our coat collars raised in a heavy drizzle. I had my dinner in a hole in the ground unlike June who watched hers spread like tumbleweed across the great plains. As a joke we both counted the number of phallic carpet tacks protruding from a piece of flooring near the gentlemen’s lavatory door.

My Diary

June slammed the early door, in my comic book world like a mouth shutting tight on a secret. I had moments earlier transcended prosaic reality and floated up through the ceiling as an amorphous purple blob. When I finally came down again the dog was busy making a model of a medieval siege tower out of used chop sticks and the cat was tying small pieces of a Romano-British tunic together to make a saw fish jaw (Genus Anoxypristis) for her mutant doll. I plan to write a story about the mutant doll world when I am able to remove the Homotherium mask from my face. June came back unexpectedly in the middle of the day and handed me a rock with lipstick marks on it; I thought it looked like an old man leaning in front of an altar and went to hide my Buddhist clothes in a hollowed out tree.

My Diary

I got up like a newly constructed champagne bottle sliding down the slipway – I hit the water but couldn’t see my name on the side of the ship, although reassuringly next door’s cat was wearing my initials instead of a bell. I had to carry a step ladder over a railway bridge, although the former (which is known to exist in at least eleven separate dimensions) was folded up into a ball – incidentally smoke was issuing from the chimney farthest away from me but totally absent from all those nearer. I imagined myself as a knight unthinkingly throwing a fading flower from the bridge as he passed over it (I also imagined a lady in army fatigues and walking on stilts like muddy candyfloss throwing it back – I saw the same lady some time later freeing a sacrificial ram from a thicket).

My Diary

I walked June to work under a layer of crumpled cellophane; her shadow was touching the hem of her coat while mine was restringing its guitar. I walked back followed by a tune. I didn’t feel like going out into the garden even though a complete stranger had knocked on the back door and instructed me in the art of lighting antique oil lamps using only diagrams scratched into a small piece of smoked glass. I searched in vain some time later for the same piece of glass with the aim of examining the signature. June had said she wouldn’t be back until dark (remembering it got dark earlier tonight) so I had plenty of time to climb the always well lit stairs in my head – knowing full well that I would never reach the top.

My Diary

June had to work, I heard her bang a recalcitrant door while watching the clock cuckoo put on his dungarees. I pulled a small piece of landscape off the view from the bedroom window and carried it out into the garden. Other flag bearers had already gathered and I imagined a large room filled with plinths and recumbent figures, each stretching further back in time – cue music and a skeletal arm plucks its own sinews. Coming back from town I glanced in a mirror and saw a leopard’s head (I’m not sure if it suited me but I need to improve my biceps), I glanced again and saw Gold Beach during the Normandy landings – in the background was a garlanded figure, I searched in vain for a violet flower.

My Diary

I had to get up early; June was gliding over the kitchen floor atop mechanical chickens which serve as shoes when inside the house – the house resembles a Saint Bernards dog head and I viewed the world through its left nostril; as far as I could see there were handcuffed harpists staring at the horizon. I caught the bus and travelled into this horizon myself, changing at a toy fort (where purportedly a battalion of millipedes learnt to march, personally I feel centipedes is more likely). The large man was sat in the dark with light radiating from his breakfast on a smiling face plate. I assigned the face to the middle to late Sixties. We talked of all the funerals we had missed and the self evident superiority of the one in four hill.

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.