My Diary

My father and I spoke as soap bubbles emanating from Yellowstone Park geysers – only my bubbles were kind to your hands – and then June and I climbed the expressionless rock face using borrowed shoe laces and bicycle inner tubes; some time later a number of barefoot cyclists walked past the front door along with a family of chimpanzees planning their next monkey hunt. On top of the bald head June hid a needle in the haystack while I tipped off our remotest ancestors and we all went out to dinner. I had a jungle plate while the others had a small part of the ocean floor each – because of the consequences of continental drift my father’s plate got larger while June’s diminished in size; I finished off her chips like a barrister addressing the jury.


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