June worked again in the morning, we both walked up the leper road before the hand like trees on the horizon had unclenched their fists. After a breakfast spread out on a factory conveyor belt I walked the dog beside what I call the sleeping poet railway track, we began with the intention of writing an epic but returned after only a limerick – a young rustic called Mallory never woke. June came back with a face full of feathers, she spoke with primaries and fluttered her secondaries as the couple next door went in with a prefabricated whale carcass and proceeded to cover it with crosses. June and I are noughts and rolled up the hill to see the elemental children in an elemental garden. I thought in pictures and June spoke in ocean waves: a ship coming in floundered on the rocks.
This is going to be a strange week, which I started squat inside a highly decorated sarcophagus made for a mummified cheese sandwich. June had gone to work hidden within a bouquet of flowers carried by a complete stranger; he put her down by a bag of old coins and went off to catch a steam train. I climbed down from the tangled remains of a now cold air balloon stuck in a rain forest tree house and attempted to teach religion to a flock of bird eating spiders. Meanwhile the dog, who had fallen in love with a particularly appealing blob of gravy on the side of her bowl stood still as a line of blind mice made an exclamation mark on the silent floor. I proclaimed my knife and fork as the next King and Queen of England and a portrait of Amelia Earhart took off and flew out of the room.
I woke once in the night to see small figures floating across the room from the partly open window to the partly closed door. I looked at the dog, who had been changed into a musical instrument, and then at June who reminded me of a piece of driftwood in the slowly lapping water of a tropical shore; the musical instrument played a Charlie Parker solo and then jumped down from the bed with the grace of a navvy tipping out a wheelbarrow of bricks. I got up to the sound of voices as if the frescoes in the Church at Assisi could talk while all artists remained silent. I called my clothes Giotto and my naked body a comet as I dressed in the vault of the World’s first space bank; the fat cat and I later took off as the countryside of my childhood was reduced to a blurred image on a computer screen.
I got up for a change with the head of a pony – June had long gone up the hill sat in her own private wagon of barley straw. After calling the animals houses I delivered their mail and then walked the dog along adjoining tunnels – I noticed hers was lit while mine remained dark. I had to go out before lunch with an old and older friend and we stopped to look at a place where people looked at us before arriving before time at the site where all black and white chess pieces merged to grey. We ate in a chequered room while outside the sun shone through clawing trees like a curious torch light through the pelvic bones of a long extinct mammal. It shone on the oldest man and we followed the ley lines between ancient and modern all the way home – all the while balancing sea lions on our rose red noses
Strange as it seems I woke in a room made of paper, wrote a scribbled note across the bed sheets and then down over the floor, reaching the door with a squiggle. As the walls were curling up at the edges I left the paper doily house and tossed a coin in the turntable garden. Neither heads or tails came up but somewhere in between. As a negative image I put fig leaves in my wallet and waited for another record to be played – above the clouds struggled with their seat belts in a racing car sky. I collected living testaments to the power of photosynthesis for the rabbit, who was sat admiring his brethren as they sat like the crenations of the Crusaders castle as it was about to fall to the forces of Saladin, and then went upstairs as a positive image to write more words on the walls of my long dead room.
An early start to the day as I pulled a dream from my bed like a wet flannel; June was downstairs dancing on an effigy of Nijinsky and the dog was asleep on a picture of a timber wolf. I dried myself off with a motion picture (I played the lead but had disappeared by the time the title had faded) and then dressed in the wood chippings left by a master treefeller. I travelled to a house in the back woods by motorised log, falling off a couple of times onto piles of dead leaves (I pictured faces in the leaves – only one of which was smiling). I talked to the timber god about doorways made from green leaves and we both sang hymns as the coffee table disappeared down a hole in the floor and a lady with a motorway tunnel in her abdomen came up; I checked for the emergence of traffic before leaving.
June got up late in a room where electricity pylons had replaced all items of furniture. We sparked when we touched before she swam in a coffee cup and I left on a rocking horse, not travelling very far but coming back with blank skies that I could paint birds on. I told June about the androgynous figure whose hair changed like seaweed – last time I saw her it was forecasting rain – and then we both went out to walk in a knitted clothes garden. I showed her a black and white statue of a girl holding a brightly coloured chalice, saying this is where pure water is collected for the vagrants of the mind: I christened mine dreams and she christened hers everyday thoughts; I claim to dredge mine up from the deepest ocean while I jokingly said hers were like old boots found on fishing lines instead of fish.