Spindle I am. Spindle I be. In the cogs of mediocrity. An insignificant sprocket in the belching machinery. I be. My days at the coal face are lost to me.

But at night…

I am transformed. I churn. I burn. I write. I am else.

I am a peace-pipe being smoked by purple dogs in the river of sin.

Nightly this calumet of catastrophic metamorphic wordism tap-taps his type to tell his tales, to scatter his stories out into the ether.

Shoveller of words, shifter of prose and sculptor of sentence and syntax I be.

I jest and I jape, I weep in my cape, and rattle through six cups of tea. Nightly.

night-night.

  • Joined: March 2007

Journal

these are the names of my pets (real and/or imagined)

Dr Colussus – a small dog. / Ramses – the cat. disdains not to play with strands of wool. / Mason – the frog. a friend to all. / Mrs Muir – the budgie medium. communes with the dead. / Captain Colin & Maggie – farm dogs. obsessed with balls. / Ludwig Hohlwein – neighbour’s cat. black. german accent. / Trudy – some kind of crocodile that chases m…
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