A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


I dragged myself out of the peat bog but realised that the art clock hadn’t managed to escape from the submarine resting on the bottom of the wine coloured ocean. I pulled the rope but only bells rang. The frog behind the counter smiled as I placed more swine before pearls. I walked the dry land while the arrows flew across an ancient night star called……



It was the last day at work for Megan the young bullock who dreamed of being a head waiter in a five star restaurant. We embraced at the lights went out and a canal boat full of refugees from the future pushed its way through the concrete floor we had prepared for a returning Second World War bomber – it had four and a half engines.



I had to dodge the showers when the winged dog and I returned from our sojourn in the sunken lands. I finished the breakfast cereal (a survivor from the gunfight at the OK corral) and went to watch the stream of Danaes falling from chlorophyll coloured sky boats. I turned the page and started a new chapter among the ten green bottles – soon there was only one.



This is my last week of forming part of the floral pattern of a plush international carpet. Seagulls called within the hanging bells as I trudged to the shops across the solidified lake made from facile facial expressions. I briefly held up the Earth while Atlas visited his mother. I then dug a hole in the past and buried myself in it.



I felt very sorry for myself as I had to climb out of the hayrick with grass stalks instead of eyebrows. I noticed a periscope revolving in the sitting room but didn’t think any more of it. Having licked a skyscraper window amount of stamps I discovered that the smile at the bottom of the page was false.



Today was a comma sort of day and I didn’t see a full stop anywhere. The sonic screwdriver was in my hand during the sandwich filling time and I glove puppeted the walk home. The afternoon was puff puff and “Pam of the evening” showed me to how dial up the Knight Templars to describe the visions I had of the lady in the pink petticoat sky.



I was out in the morning disguised as a walking canoe. I waltzed through the rapids and tangoed down the waterfall. I then came home inside the world’s biggest chicken. I had to pace the deck for a couple of hours before unrolling on a honeymoon carpet. The evening was shorter than anticipated and a stick of seaside rock came through the door as a surprise.


About Gerald Shepherd

Gerald Shepherd is a painter, graphic artist, sculptor, digital/multimedia artist, photographer, writer, curator and arts administrator. He has also been involved with science art, performance art, conceptual art, installations and environments (as well as peripheral creative pursuits such as garden design).
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