Life goes into the conjurer’s cabinet

Life goes into the conjurer’s cabinet and he cuts it in two. You run to get the bus. He opens the cabinet to show the head smiling, the feet wriggling. You run through a glass arcade of night. The children watch in awe. On the work shop floor you run like a shackled puppet through buzz saws of all emotion and emerge in slices. Children’s games are all that’s left that’s whole.

A ship is made of two eyelids that open up the sky and an enormous eyeball stares down at you. Do you see the conveyer belt that the sunlight arrives on. The wind blows a large leaf into your face. With a pair of scissors you cut the moon out of the sky and paste it into your pillow book. Higher and higher you go as if separated from the earth. Your bank balance is exhausted and you fall suddenly into the swimming pool.

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