January
2007
The Soap Factory, Periodical. Part One.
Once, long time ago, puffing on a pipe and digging my fat toes into the shag, and supping on a thick rimmed glass of almost…but wait.
“More powder! All over my face! Into the crevices! Go on woman, scrub!”
So yes, Africa. Two tiny word-eels, hardly eels at all, were jumping and giggling, festering too. Foul things. And they lived in newspaper. Newspaper is a city, wet and stale with the juice from dogs, and it stuck to the wall in the wind. Now where to go next? You see up there? Out the window dear boy, look at those herons.
“You know they stand over their own nests? They hope to eat their falling young you know. Magnificent race. Splendid.”
I think its time to open my very own soap factory. (The boy trembles. Parts his limbs and his lips…delicate like when you break a wren’s wing and it doesn’t snap cleanly because there are sinews of marrow or something holding it).
2 Responses to “The Soap Factory, Periodical. Part One.”
Got the herons working for you as ever. Best thing here. I read it almost daily. I’ve bookmarked it. I can head straight to it. Dartwise. Easy.
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Take your time. Dont be hurried. To open your own soap factory you will need some things:
you will need a flavour for the soap to be, and you will need a colour for the soaps to be. There are many colours. And when you imagine them in soap-form you introduce shadows.
Carry on.