Novel on Toilet Paper

More Myth than Pith

read the plain yellow cover-
no author, no publisher, no nothing to go on

apart from copious words on waxy,

grey municipal toilet paper,

all held together with a giant orange paper clip.

Emma had found it on her doorstep bubble wrapped in a plain brown envelope

after responding to a gentle tap on her bathroom window

A slight smell of lavender and carbolic wafted up as she flicked pages with a numb thumb. The writing was small, sharp dark pencil.

The hand right-slanted, neat, clear, compelling.
It was the story of her life so far

just keep on going, keep on keeping on, just keep going on, one leg after the other, over and over again, running, walking, trotting, stumbling, hopping, skipping, jumping, leaping…just keep on going on and on…

—Prose-poetry! My very favourite! She trembled

…hurtling it is, hurtling past fast. & I is it. I hurtle. I am hurtling. Hurtling along…Call me Tim E McSquared. Sunflower seed. Primrose evening oil. Pea puree of Nineveh.

a Twinkle-toed sloth. A thermostatic Sea Lion splish-splosh-splashing in semi-skimmed milk, tickling the testy torpid tortoise tenderly with a twig. A purposeful porpoise shadowing passing underwasser boots

Someone’s crocking my dreamcruise, frowned Emma, now stowed away on SS Lusitania—breaking blue cheesy mould, sea change is dash-dashed difficult to do-do

Stick with the corpus temptresses, Beryl & Cheryl Cummerband down the Snake & Tortoise, weaving lotus flowers, milking it for what its worth

& Petit Moi

a Fresh innocent, imagine! Sun shining gold leaf-like, cold blind man wondering Turkey tick-tocking time the only way is up

Writing, writing, writ…no big dealership – Noddycabs, Corgicars, Mini-Coopers…Bubbles, Robin Reliants, all things three-wheeler dealers.

Think tyre savings. Think a lifetimesworth of Rubbertrees.

—Gosh, said Emma. Little Me

Emma Euphoria

Emma stood blank in half-eight demi-light thinking causes for one shit up & two shits below: stale toast, ancient Camembert, fatty olives, decaying salad, egg & chips, late night salmon, oily roast root vegetables, midsummer nectarine, squashy pears, rich cream cheesecake, bottle of white wine, after eight mints, dirty glasses, yes, dirty glasses…

Dirty bedclothes full of stale flu-sweat, skin flakes, dandruff, and smokey house dust

Sink full of dirty dishes, greasy black hob, sticky fingers, slimy forboding corners, swampy miasma, fairy lights hanging from the dogroses.

Handel’s Water music strutted on the wireless. Which came first, thought Emma, the water or the fireworks? Was it linear or circular? Either way it was always the same old Handel. How very reassuring. Not.

The last two weeks had oozed bad news.

Radio daze…

No post or  calls? Not yet. Have a think. Check your incoming. Read about writing. Perhaps more radio. Tidy the kitchen. Why me? I’m a cripple. A raspberry ripple. Wheelchair Bound. Simon and Garfunkel.
A sudden burst, a rat-ta-tat, six minutes at least it lasts. Nothing moves but these twisted fingers on the keyboard. A radio monologue describes an airport encounter. John Mortimer.
Namedropper, that’s what I’ll call it. namedropper. James Joyce Carol Oates.
A Friday in October.
Sounds awesome.
nearly gave in there. The urge to blog. SOS to the world #3064…fills the time & I like it. quiet. Just the radio. Me & the Radio. The wireless. The Other Girl by John Mortimer, that’s what it was. Calls? Check for incoming. Clean up. Put the kettle on. Polly.

Foodless and fancy food means cook sausages—will it be with chips?
Afternoon dawns grey mass dormant air leaves dampen droop slump
Weather report done.
H-bomb calls about F-bomb. Emmer Greensward, Reading. The long haul begins. Chips or the full Monteverdi? Tough call, tough, tough calll…
—Trim your beard, you slob
—In the fullness of thyme, Master. The fullness of thyme.
Get out some haddock to deforest. Is this a hangover or just bog standard gastro-enteritis? No fried eggs, no chips. Green salad, Tabasco, shallots, spinach…



marrow cosh express
forgiveness for sins bless you
now you're free to go
death queen's bed confession
keep it in the family
eyes are the whores of the mind
keep it in the family
pictures on the radio
mind's eye cinema


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