Friday afternoon and the sky is bored to tears. I am bemoaning my slatternly ways after five hours of tidying up. It was unfair that Snout should have to strap on his crampons and climb a Ben Nevis of discarded gee-gaws in order to find his trousers.
Apparently, it was my hair that strangled the vacuum cleaner. Brother Mine and LoH joked with the vacuum-man, said well, it looks like we’ll have to shave her. The vacuum-man said Christ, is it a dog? and when Brother said no, it’s my sister, VM couldn’t decide whether to apologise or piss himself laughing.
When the last person to try and live with us fell in love with me, he stole one of the little mice I make from my hair. I found it under his pillow. He should have known better. Monsters always know where their fur is.
Now my sheets are cleaner than me. My bed is blue, like a lagoon. Over my head at night I pull the waters. I am otter-born, I float on my side and the tears the crocodiles cry for me are real. My body is the palanquin in which the water holds my dreams aloft, and from the trees surrounding, the monkeys rain their babies down on me.
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