Here is a picture of a long lost friend. He is aiming a spear at a woolly mammoth. He comes walking out of my brain like a stick man and sits on the floor. He starts a campfire and spreads his belongings in front of him. The smoke is rising up towards a cluster of stars.
Here is a picture of a woolly mammoth. It has a placard around its neck. It is trapped in the Thumb of Michigan by fires. Hunters are running towards it as it makes its protest. Save The Wooly Mammoth. One of the men is a long lost friend, how did he get there?
I thought he had died long ago, but he rode the dragonfly back into this past world. Next summer I will look for the magic dragonfly that can fly me back into his ancient world.
The magic dragonfly is as big as a lion. It flies into the bus stop at West India Dock Road between when the sun disappears and the stars open their windows. It is a brief enclosure of nothingness from where you can travel backwards into the ghost world.
You can tell that my friend is a ghost man from the picture on the stone wall. It is strangely lacking in light and shadow and the days are heaped up into mounds rather than weeks. Here is a mound of ten thousand years ago. The lake waters were alive then and told stories and all the woolly mammoths, after their appetites were sated, would sit down and listen to its haunting noise.
The experience was different from what it is today, days were longer, the air was fresher, and all the year round was summeresque.
In the thumb of Michigan, the mammoths have gone to sleep. The hunters are men and women now and are smiling at one another. A great flock of birds and a herd of deer take up residence by the singing water. A shower of meteorites goes across the sky.
I can only get two legs
I can only get two legs in my trousers
Sometimes I try to get all four.
I can only get two arms into my shirt sleeves
And wings just don’t fit anymore.
I try to get two heads inside my hat
But they argue and always fall out.
And I try to get two hearts together
But one is always left out.