My Diary

I woke stuck to the bedroom wall like paisley patterned wallpaper; my eyelashes like multiple legs kicking multiple footballs – I scored a goal for breakfast and then ate the goal mouth (it is widely rumoured that June had eaten the referee but it was only a linesman). I escaped the house inside a ball point spacecraft, writing a message in the dark matter of deep space before orbiting the garden like a heron circling a fish and chip van. June was licking the house instead of stamps when I returned home wearing draught horse shoes and holding a blank canvas as if it was a lost continent. Unusually we never went out for lunch, preferring to stay home: me tied to a pre-war threshing machine and her with marble effect bookends for earrings.

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