A Much Earlier Weekly Diary


This was my last day on the Spanish galleon. We sailed into port (with two glasses each side) as the moon turned into a sickle. I had spent a lot of my caterpillar crawling time trying to find a piece of string but still managed to trip over the words I had written earlier. The mummified cats had already lined up to dance the cancan – Ali held on tight as the last wave went by.



The start of a new snail person era. I felt tired as I was peeled of the backing paper and spread on the arena floor. I picked flowers and planted myriads of model Earths while the sellotape clock kept ticking. The voice in the sky was learning a foreign language and the police came to the water rats who live next door. I raised the flag and lowered my eyes.



Large fish were hunting for small men as the stair rods came down like old people in wheel chairs. Having several sacks of time in my hands I sat in the Red Indian shed chanting and moving my peace pipe pencil in complex spirals. The lost tribes walked round aimlessly in the prison yard. I went out to unlock the door and then went out to lock it again – having never gone inside.



I walked to the paint draped town for the very last time, pulling behind me a horse and cart. The dungeon man and I took the boxes downstairs after I gave the puzzled fairy my flowers. On the walk home I invented a new form of mathematics so that every sum now ends in zero. The redundant fly and I contemplated the future while riding a hump backed whale called the Flying Saucer.



I went to the seaside, I had the customary bucket over my head. I got very wet walking to the solid rock ships and I dropped in on a friendly white witch to dry out in her vapours. The railway stations were talking among themselves and the train went in and out without being noticed. I tied a polecat to a stick and waited for another.



The morning was wreathed in buttercups – hands were removed from breast pockets to grasp them. The ladder leant against nothing and cast man like shadows. I pulled the room apart to form a field and walked out in it until the weather (still walking on stilts) changed and the rain man danced. I danced with a lady who had a mobile phone for a head.



The alarm went off inside a marsh mallow; Poppy, the dog, took off her pyjamas while I made a World War Three sentry box in the bed. The caves were quiet and I roasted memories in cans strung on string. Pipe Man visited and we held up the traffic in the kitchen while June, my wife, held up the stagecoach in the parlour. I wore a skirt for the evening.


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).
This entry was posted in Diary, Poetry, prose, Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s