The tale of the maverick woodlouse


I lived in dust, detritus, assorted dead skin, hair and

Miscellaneous pieces of lego too small to contemplate.

The odd cheerio,

A spider or three.

Sand, bland, somewhat damned.

Pot-bellied pig excrement occasionally

Livening up the proceedings.



Brighter than the others but inanimate.

Spiders weaved their webs into beautiful sentiment,

Making joy out of dead dusty musty places,

But I could not.

My brandishing French soul felt the urge

To charge out of the bag.

I charged relentless to the hills,

And saw them,

Shrivelled from some long dead battle.

The peas.

I curl up into a crunchy ball to honour their green


Solemnity fills the air,

For a moment.

But I toddle on, my little legs headed somewhere.

Mais oui, cherie,

A hoover bag is not the place for me.

I want to see the sea,

A tree,

A buzzing bumble,

Be free.

That is the life for me.

The wind caressing me as I roll down the hill,

And struggle my pithy little legs until

I can right myself and

Toddle back up again.

C’est la vie, cherie,




the yellow clock and the orange

The yellow clock ticks more slowly than the orange

But around both is enveloping blackness,

A letter from some


they know


I don’t,

Black ink on black paper.

It all ends up the same

Whichever time-frame.

Is it the same conversation

With a different name?

The peas rot more slowly

But the seconds don’t matter

When you know where you’re going.

When you don’t is when the tick is your music

And the silence between your thinking time

To plan the next graceful leap into chaos

And hope for peaceful oblivion.

Sinister shadows of reality hoover at the corners,

Desperate for dust,

squashing the escapist bubble

and it bursts.