My Diary

Conscious there was an imaginary figure going up and down a set of stairs inside my head I very quietly walked the entire length of a giant keyboard to reach the back door; I initially walked only on white but eventually changed key. I returned like a Namib Desert sea fog; the dog was dancing in points although her reflection was barefoot. We walked along a Gizelle stage, changing the story as we did so and said good bye to the indestructible robot heroine at the front door (she was destined to replace Gort in the twenty second remake of the science fiction classic – this one set in the garden of the house I grew up in). I had covered myself in fallen leaves (each leaf a memory) when June entered; the imaginary figures in her head having dug a large hole and then filled it in again.

My Diary

June went to back to work holding a small part of the Atlantic ocean in two differently sized boxes. I named the small box after a Viking sailor who suffered from sea sickness and the larger one after the personal valet of King William the first (incidentally King William the second died nor very far from where I am writing this after a wasted day hunting wild boar at Lords Cricket Ground during the 2012 Olympic Games). Poppy and I meditated on adjoining rocky outgrowths from an otherwise pristine lawn. I thought about gnarled fingers emerging from thick mud and the likelihood of an expensively gloved hand reaching down to touch them while she watched intently as a small flock of seagulls circled the municipal rubbish dump.

My Diary

I set the alarm clock that the dog had swallowed and some time later woke up with a bark. As usual June got into the Isis and Osiris bathroom first. While watching the silent gesture of the landing light I remembered the story of a cigarette found in an unopened ancient tomb and held on tight to a shadow even though I had no way of knowing for sure it was mine. We had a toy shop breakfast and then went out for a joined up writing day – we both managed to spell some very long words which my sister subsequently arranged into a surprisingly short sentence. June bought a handbag while I purchased some memories with the intention of scattering them when alone in a house. My sister waved goodbye with June and I huddled together like consecutive diary dates under a rain smudged sky.

My Diary

June had a wet weather appointment and went to drizzle town with her pet combine harvester trundling along behind. I was in clockwork railway engine attendance and rained part of the way and rumbled like a main battle cloud the other. Only half in jest I envisioned the giant key protruding from my back as a can opener – as the stranger approached I would spill the beans! June and I met again under a bridge which had several larger bridges arching over it – two children on the uppermost structure dropped sticks onto the one below – they never moved an inch. June bent over to watch the empty water and I noticed that the cornfield on her head had the footprints of Vincent van Gogh running across it. If I had been wearing boots I would have followed them.

My Diary

June got out of an early morning bed while I tried to stay in a late night one. The supernatural being I keep in a trunk at the bottom of the bed was cleaning her glasses even though immortals shouldn’t need them – I touched her ring as if it was a lock of Jean Harlow’s hair. We watched from between the werewolf vase and the vampire flowers as the little Frankenstein monsters arrived for the afternoon. We all travelled back in time as pink and purple fairies. In the town that both sides went round in the English Civil War a crane headed man mechanically lifted a small fragment of childhood high into the air. June rode a Victorian rocking horse and I sat on an Edwardian trike while a speeding train knocked the top hat off the nursery window.

My Diary

I started the day curled up in a small nondescript container trying to hear the the sea – I rolled to the window where the daylight entered as a mobile telephone number. Outside someone was trying to beat the world speed record on a tricycle while a number of spectators (none of which I really know) were attempting to fulfill this title even though there heads were heavily bandaged. I met my father down town carrying two empty bags, I pulled a piece of paper from my penguin pocket and we tried to identify the bird footprints running across it – he thought bittern and I thought egret. I came home listening to the week condensed into a folk song, quite near the end the guitarist broke a string and the singer was left alone in the chorus.

My Diary

I rose like a bird of prey who had only just realised he was kept inside a cage. I flew indoors and then caught the bus in the request stop drizzle. Waiting for my connection at a recently fenced in hill top I talked to a man with a map tattooed on his head, luckily he was shorter than me but I still couldn’t decide if I had to read it from the front or the back. The second bus arrived just as a large black cat emerged from the undergrowth. I found the old man sat in a bungalow with a house full of furniture, he showed me his coat of arms which unfortunately didn’t fit. I then cleaned the bathroom: just as I was thinking a crumpled face flannel looked like a group of miners climbing a coal tip the man from down the road put his head through the open window.