It’s a summer’s day and the crickets are chirping in one continuous sound similar to a jet-engine’s whine. The dog is asleep at my feet and the television rambles on about some indigenous tribes in South America. I’ll be bowling tonight. This is the only way I can tell whether I can concentrate. If I bowl well - all is well. Never mind.
We’ll have some greengages soon. The branches of this tree are pliant and the possum has just eaten every leaf of another plum tree and has killed it but finds it hard to balance on the greengage because if it falls off, the cat is waiting underneath to scratch it. I’m giving the tree lots of water and liquid fertiliser that makes the fruit grow and then I go down each day and feel each plum whether it’s soft and if it is, I eat it. I could do this all day. What a wasted life.
I’m writing two booklets. One is made up of children’s poems that have no meaning, only sound like music. A bit like the Jabberwocky. The other is filled with short-short stories and I seem to procrastinate with that one.
On this page are another two of my philosophical sonnets. I haven’t published the book because I can’t find the sheet with my ISBN numbers. I will, don’t worry, eventually.
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