My Diary

Our neighbour christened the drudgingly grey day a good morning as I rode up the garden path on an urban water buffalo. I found a microphone near the top, close to where a giant’s footprint had made a pond, and addressed the crowd who had assembled to watch a werewolf being pulled from a thicket while he eulogized about Dr Martin Luther King. I startled everyone in attendance by reciting my thirteen times table backwards and he made his escape together with the souls of lovers who had died together – I imagined them swirling around in a casserole dish before being tasted by the chef. June come home early with two bacon and egg sandwiches in her holsters; being a vegetarian I had to put my arms up and kept them there until the man who existed only as a reflection saw himself.

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