Evermore I am bleeding. From the face. It’s fantastic when you’re bleeding, dripping. An oily yellow discharge from the hole that sews itself up in times of peace. Bleeding for peace, bleeding for pie, bleeding in the forlorn hope that one day a robin will settle upon your perch and bless you nightly with surprises. Christmas day when the Amazon man lands, dog chased him off and he’s shouting, givin’ off like an oul granda. I laughed and he grumbled, didn’t quite catch what he said but I’m sure it was all complimentary. Next up it’s scissors with a side of slimy sandwich, faces once bleeding now changing contortions most comforting yes more for the mill I’ll reap, reap heat, reap heat. And grim is he who cuts corn in the night. And leaden is the chain that hangs round the wrangler’s neck. And every gravestone a place for you to park your Self. Gifted goons a-googlin’. Beefed up tarts do twinkle. Crazed crazies getting’ all crazy when they’re sensible, will I not no yes once more that’s the one one time yes huh oof off now stap.

Wore the wrong hat to the shop yesterday. It looked fine when I was leaving. My friend had me convinced that I looked like the ex-boyfriend of some dead famous singer. “Fame, you say? Why let me stumble out into the street.” An opportunity I just couldn’t pass up.

What happened next? Well I got laughed at, of course. At least I think so, I didn’t actually hear any laughter, but something told me to drop the hat. And so I did, right after shocking the shop girl (was it her face?) And so on to Tesco and looking only at the shelves and the goods and pick up what’s needed and extras of course heft heft heft. And look anyway to quit all this bollocks and get to the bottom of it, on the way out of the shop when who should cross my path but a lady dressed in pink fur, with mickey mouse ears, and a fella with big mad mutton chops. It worked! There was a reason. I knew I should’ve worn that hat.

Right down to business, too many things. I wore too many funky things. For a shop walk like. Me ma told me and I should’ve listened, ye only need one funky thing, one wee bit, then blend. Dressin’ ridiculous perhaps best kept for club dates and Pride. Mother’s pride, the whole damn brood. Buckaw!