2^nd September 2017 

Roy Orbison may have driven all night to get to me… but I was ready for him.

24th August 2017
“Tish and fippsy!” I exclaimed, cursing like a sailor who had just taken a kraken to the sweetbreads.
    I usually reserved such coarse language for supermarket openings but something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And by Denmark, I mean the guttering that lined the roof of my house, because dangling from there I spied some very unwanted guests in the form of Mort, the travelling spine salesman, and his winged children, who I assumed had carried their vagabond father unto his squatter’s perch ‘pon the peak of my dwelling.
    “Get down from there, Mort, you damn squatter!” I cried, my socks pulsing with rage.
    Grinning, Mort hurled obscenities down at me like naughty rain in between gulps from the drum of cooking oil affixed to his back, his trademark method of keeping his own spine so supple and shiny. At the same time, his freakish spawn frolicked amidst the rainwater and leaves which the guttering had collected.
    I’d see them all in Hell before this was over.
    I went to bed about ten.

18th August 2017
Now if I have one regret about moving into my current house, it’s my assumption that the screaming skulls lining the walls of the cellar would eventually get tired or bored and move on, but alas, like my drill sergeant told me when I fought in that war, “Assuming something is like painting a cloud with regret: you need a long ladder.” He was a fucking idiot, my drill sergeant.
        So today, as I was trying to practice my harp-playing on the harp given to me by the woman who holds the world record for shooting the smallest skirting board off a tramp’s eyebrows, I’d finally had enough of the skulls’ subterranean caterwauling and went down there to give them a piece of my mind.
        The skulls blamed their twattish noise on swamp gas and lunar shifts but I wasn’t having any of it so I put an end to their bony (M) nonsense with violent movements. Satisfied that justice had been served, I ate my harp in triumph then settled in for the evening with my Hunter season 1 boxset.

 11^th August 2017

This morning I drove my car into the river as an offering to Neptune. But guess what? He wasn’t even at home but out playing crazy golf with M.O.D.O.K. That’s three grand down the toilet, plus the peacocks I was keeping in the boot.

          Still, things perked up in the afternoon when I stole a car and drove that into a bridge as an offering to Jeff Bridges and he descended from the sky and told me I was alright in his book. The months of physiotherapy it’s gonna take to repair my shattered legs are gonna fly by.

30th July 2017
Another haiku:

    I am a pink boy
    Insidious betrayal
    By that yellow orb

29th July 2017
I write haiku now:

    Oh lovely sunshine
    The sunshine is quite lovely
    Lovely lovely sun

20^th July 2017

The small stegosaurus perched on top of my television won’t stop staring at me and I’m not gonna lie, after a few months it’s starting to freak me out. Still, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lend him my spirit level.

16th July 2017
So I was walking through the park today, on my way to the hot pastry parade, when a flock – or, if you want to get technical, a “bastard” – of kestrels swooped down from the trees and pummelled me with their meaty fists. I tried to point out the physiological inaccuracy of what was happening but they wouldn’t have any of it, insisting that this was payback for what I did to their bouncy castle.
        “Oh, my feathered assailants,” I said as they tenderised my sweet, sweet flesh, “your bouncy castle did not suffer at my cheeky hands but those of my malevolent doppelganger, Dark Poncho.”
        I saw the truth of my words blossom in their eyes like a drop of vegetable soup plopping into a glass of vodka, and in their shame they all ritually disembowelled themselves. Once again Dark Poncho’s fiendish actions had not only led to the unnecessary suicide of vengeful wildlife but also landed me right in the shit.
        There will come a reckoning, Dark Poncho.

8th July 2017
My heart awoke an hour before I did, bursting as it was with so much love to share on yet another Valentine’s Day, that day of the year when people turned into slavering dogs gnawing on the gristle-bedecked bones of either inevitably terminal or deluded, long-faded affection.
    By the time I got out of bed and went downstairs, my heart had already prepared a slap-up breakfast for me, consisting of liquor and wrists. Oh my heart, you know me so well.
    But then, my collector’s-edition ‘Allo ‘Allo! calendar leapt off the wall and kicked the shit out of me and pointed out the date.
    For ‘twas not Saint Valentine’s Day, aroused reader, oh no. ‘Twas Saint Duplocheek’s Day, that terrible holiday allowing people to be a bit of a twat for a day.
    Damn you, heart! Damn you.

30^th June 2017 

J. T. Walsh. I forgot about him. Good actor.

23^rd June 2017

Strangeness comes in many forms, my ancient, pagoda-silhouetted university lecturer told me and the rest of my class. Well, I say university lecturer, he was actually a gasman. And I say class, but it was actually just me and three skeletons glued to my head. And I say talking, but he was actually communicating via a series of gestures, timed lights and tearful writhing. 

        Anyway, where was I?

        Oh yeah, I remember: so there I was, plunging through Earth’s atmosphere with only forty-five seconds left before the best haberdashery in town closed for the day…

21^st June 2017

Borrow a professional ape-groomer’s artificial leg during the night and does he let you forget about it? Does he fuck.