My Diary

I heard the door slam shut in my breakfast cereal box and then saw my silver spoon reflect the same horizon from a multitude of different Centuries; I made myself a cup of tea as a sense of Thirteenth Century gloom descended the Twenty First Century sky. I hollowed out a log knowing full well that June would be out all day and the person from down the road – who exists only as a large head with small limbs issuing from it – wouldn’t call without an invitation (customarily wrapped in a piece of an old hippie’s kaftan). With the log I travelled up stream on a river of piano keys, taking care not to land on a black square where the cellophane people could catch you and tie you to a plastic dragon’s tail. I was standing like the last tree of an ancient wood when a young sapling knocked on the door.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s