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