My Diary

I wanted to chill out so I spent part of the morning hanging from the ceiling in my studio like a stalactite. I could feel the cold mountain water trickle down my frozen limbs and end up on the canvas as wet paint.

I was then the tall gatehouse of an early Edwardian castle – the view was spectacular, even though it was a cloudy day and the trees were on their honeymoon. The gypsy tree feller kept popping up with a smiling face but I redirected him to a scowling alley. This is where ancestral bird heads appear from circular marks on the dirt covered walls, replete with Pompeii graffiti.

I fluttered as an American flag in the afternoon before returning to my normal state as an ancient Egyptian pictogram in the evening. I am not sure what I was supposed to represent as I have not been deciphered yet (Rosetta Stone was on her holiday).

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My Diary

I was out in the morning, travelling along the green carpet which had been unrolled for the sun’s weekly procession. The greenery was dripping wet and the bean plant had people hanging from it. I climbed to the top and looked down; the landscape appeared like a bedspread which had been slashed with a knife. I put the knife back in my pocket and caught the bus home.

My studio seemed like a mausoleum and I painted to the accompaniment of dead people. A crown was left on the seat for a tree to grow through when the human race has disappeared . I stood up and the Arctic ice cap vanished.

I found a ring on the floor and stepped through it; I was now as tall as a mouse.

My Diary

I spent today in the candy dungeon. It was nicely laid out with imitation rolling hills; over which winged boots, minus their owners, can fly. Everyone who came in talked with bird calls. I was the big bat and used echo location to post a letter to the remote people who inhabit the needles that repair the sky. I pulled up the zip and the sky disappeared.

I had an interesting conversation with a boiled sweet which occupied the adjoining cell. I was impressed with the level of erudition it had attained – all from being in my pocket (among the keys to the doors that unlock the sky).

I saw a glimpse of the immortal toad when I trudged home. It croaked but I knew it was only kidding.

My Diary

I was in the eye of the hurricane again; where the wind never blows (except from flying heads that often trumpet their victories over the bodies of men). I was not as calm as I would have liked to have been as someone had accidentally plugged me into a light socket. This one hung in the bald headed interrogation room – I was glad I never talked.

I sat on a high chair in my studio most of the day – painting the air. When the chair walked away (ostensibly to lie down with a head ache) I was left hanging in mid air; tiny propellors on the bottom of my shoes. I landed with a bump and then photographed myself wearing a telephone for a moustache. I saluted the air.

I went to bed with a song in my trousers.

My Diary

I went to a cardboard cut-out seaside today. I travelled by train, which had it’s trousers down. The wind blew like Masai spears but I saw no ships. I did see smoke from where the birds took off and the place where cranes held little people captive. I imagined pulling the chain and the men topple out with sky rockets in their beards. I then met the fortune teller and told her what I thought, I put a pack of cards in my pocket and shuffled home. The train was a porcupine.

When I got in I painted spots all over my body so I would merge with the wallpaper. The paper boy put a reminder though the letter box.

I picked up a marrow with a face cut in it. It’s green tongue was sticking out.

My Diary

A late morning and I eventually crawled out of bed as a book mark – I had a dream but couldn’t remember the page.

I was a razor blade in my studio until the mountain gorillas collected under the tree in the garden and I went out to make my mark. I hung around with a stethoscope from my neck until Beethoven scrambled out of a cleft in the tree trunk. I read the paper with a lawnmower and combed the hedge for it’s parting.

It was a Sunday service and the buses that collect on the telephone wires before migrating home were getting scarce. I read a poem and then poured it into a milk bottle. June and I picked the fruit that festooned the doorway of the old sea dog’s shack.

In the evening Pam and I remembered the past when we both found the centre of the earth. I played the music of the spheres on my knee caps with a spoon.

My Diary

In readiness for the show that will disguise our escape from Colditz, Poppy and I practised being a pantomime horse. I was the front end and she was the rear. I ate the grass.

It was a stressful day, especially when Poppy bit through the braces which were holding up the policeman’s trousers. He blew his whistle and we both ran.

I was then the compere that called on the clowns and also the person who had to put his head in the lion’s mouth. I used it’s Adam’s apple as a microphone and addressed the crowds that had gathered.

The evening was spent going to and fro balancing a sea lion on my head. Only once did it drop it’s ball.