It rained like a multitude of country vicars all hitting the ground at the same time. Unfortunately I am now living in the town and passed several times of day with an anorexic Friar Tuck before the Celtic symbols on my spectacle lenses grew too big to look through. I hoovered the face on my studio floor knowing that June was downstairs curled up as a croquet ball waiting for Isis and Nephthys to come along holding a stick. Later she stood up as a solitary acacia in the dry ground under an opened umbrella while I curled up as a cricket ball waiting for Kali and Durga. After a quick lunch consisting of part of the Earth’s crust destined to form a new continent in the next epoch June took the acacia to town, coming home with jackal ears and a brand new jumper.
I woke with an alarm bell for a head – I am still waiting for it to go off. June went out for the day, walking backwards and with her coat inside out. I half expected her to be back before she left but she returned in the prolonged wet of the evening with a coat in one bag and an ocean in the other, I dipped my toe in the ocean and then swam in the coat. I had spent the day nailed to a pseudo-religious floor, getting free late afternoon with the help of a travelling troupe of animal players who wore masks with extinct flora and fauna on them and claimed to have entertained the Russian Royal Family. I showed them something I had written just before their machine gun shadows were metamorphosed into tiger stains on a jungle patterned carpet.
I couldn’t go out as I had to wait for pictures to suddenly appear in the hall, wiping their feet as the minstrels played in the “Nude On A Cliff Top” gallery. Before this the man with rat whiskers knocked the door and window simultaneously and then exchanged pleasantries with the cat – who was wearing a crash helmet despite sitting still. The man pulled a square object out of a circular hole and gave me a triangular smile – I replied with my nicest polyhedron. After the picture people had called I made the inevitable white mark on a white canvas and then spoke to June with a frying pan phone – she answered with the clink of a coffee cup. She followed the tea pot home and we made a tea set in the Minotaur’s intestines we have been told to call a kitchen.
I rose with my patented UFO hat already on, leaving June in a strangely angled sleep on a lower deck of the RMS Queen Elizabeth in Hong Kong harbour. The dog took my cosmic head through the playing fields wormhole before my working clothes mapped the extremities of my working body – not very well as it turned out as the street we live on had been turned into cul de sac. June had to go out to have an exploratory drill hole sunk into her right arm; no oil was found so she offered to have solar panels attached to her cheeks. She came home to find me experimenting with a wind turbine; I had only just came in from the garden where I had been growing wings to sell to angels – unfortunately demand has dropped over the last few years.
I got up in the Jonah like darkness – June however put the light on. I followed a migrating herd of zebra crossings to the traffic lights countryside; a little boy in my haversack climbing a ladder – by the time I had met the valley king (previously the hillside king) he had reached the top. We talked of trees while outside the trees talked of us. Once we had reached an old holly by the hedge we both left; me travelling on a breakfast cereal box (the wheels were inside as free gifts) and him as the large hand of a pocket watch. I got in with marine flagellates as hair: June encased in a slab of butter was waiting for me to get the milk. We stopped talking when a carbon copy of the postman ambled up the path with a group of early Christians sat in the arena on his head.
A surprisingly early morning in what used to be a quickly read comic book dawn. June was still on a dry sea bed with tall masted boats floating in and then out again through the half open window – the view has always reminded me of a gigantic baby squat on a miniscule potty. Poppy and I walked through the internal cavities of the only life form that actually exists on Earth: it is supposed to be sleeping and we are its dreams – sometimes I wish it would wake up (although most of the time I don’t, especially when I look up and see symbols in the sky). As usual June went to town; her clothes aerodynamically fashioned to keep her feet on the ground – of course, they wouldn’t fit me even if I was brave enough to wear them.
I got up with the head of a spider monkey and the tail of a raccoon; June remained in bed talking of redecorating the zoo. After a breakfast of old pictures I walked the dog along the sharpened edge of a razor, painted a clown’s face black and then went to lunch with myself and June. We both ate minutes instead of food before being served a meal of ball bearings and brake fluid. I came home to sew badges onto flying carpets while June stayed in town garlanding shopping malls with conversation. She came home eventually as the contents of a hypodermic syringe; being injected into the living room wearing Boer War camouflaged stockings and green vegetables freshly grown in the Crimea. I saluted like a Great Western Railway signal and poured boiling hot tea from a ball point pen.