Here is a picture of a long lost friend.

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.

 

 

Alone in the Shoe Repair Shop

Alone in the shoe repair shop
The child becomes a spider
Who carries an anvil
Behind the shop counter
That becomes a crippled clotheshorse
That gallops amongst piles of shoes’
In the unlit workroom
Where the smell of leather
Is as slick as a tin of Brasso
That spills over a box of rubber heels
Where the smudges of wax polish
Like burn marks are branded
In the cobblers heart of shoe leather

Alone in the Shoe Repair Shop
Another shoe jumps
Onto the upturned iron foot
As cobwebs cover the dead child
Who rolls in the eye of the cobbler
Who fills his mouth with tacks
While bleeding from his feet
Whose socks are bedraggled lions
Tearing the carcass of the rent man
Who rolled on the floor in flames
After a bible thumped against a door cupboard
Where old hammers are stored
In cake tins along with bankruptcy
That walks in the army boots
Of a Methodist preacher that echo
In a parade ground in France

Alone in the shoe repair shop
The child is split in two by a cuckoo
That turns into a Football Pools lady
As shoes fly at the clock-face
Carrying bags of nails
That dam up the floods of tears
Of the small child looking for a seat
Amongst the generation gap of black machinery
That dribbles oil and grease
Into the eye of a dead bantam cock
That pulls a Wellington boot
From a plague of birds in the fireplace

Alone in the Shoe Repair shop
The small child is a shattering windowpane
Where the distant sound of a town
Is falling into an orphan’s nursery rhyme
And fills the empty street outside
With powder puffs and nail varnish
As the tram cars whistle by
A tune like a broken pitch pipe
As girlie books fall from the thundercloud
That opens an old budgie cage
Hanging from a weeping willow tree

Alone in the shoe repair shop
Where the darkness drips like magnetism
Into the grimy sink
As earth worms cover the machinery
That becomes the loss of a dead bird
Who sings itself to death
In the lap of the lonely child
Who followed it into oblivion
Where a dragon lived in an old shoe
In a bowl of mashed potato

Alone in the Shoe Repair shop
The thick canvas machine belts
Rotate the earth
Beneath an avalanche of worn shoes
Piling up in the toy cupboard
As darkness falls on the street outside
As Christmas stuffs a chicken with a nightmare
That turns the small child into granite
And runs away from there
Into mists of forgetfulness

Bag Full of Rocks

My rocks are the memories from different adventures. I thought I would just leave this bag here.

Relatos desde mi ventana

Sentimientos, emociones y reflexiones

Thinking Chitalia

As opposed to a “not thinking chitalia”

.*♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*. BERNARD *♥**♥*★ *♥*..*♥*.

♥♥ ♥♥ MES PLUS BEAUX BISOUS D'AMITIES A VOUS ♥♥ ♥♥

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