In the beginning was MEGACROCODOG and MEGACROCODOG was with God and was God and was a lampshade with a pretty butterfly pattern and was everything conceivable except herpes and cockroaches and the long queue for a bus unlikely ever to materialise from the boundless beneficence of MEGACROCODOG’s divine mind which was the world and not the world and not to be argued with though free will was given to His creatures crawling and walking and flying and swimming in the blissful certainty of the existence of a creator they had never seen and who never wrote to them and who rarely appeared to them in dreams except as a saucy nun hitching up her habit to give a flash of her holy hole from which came the solemn edicts of the dead lying in wait of their paradise under the starry gaze of MEGACROCODOG and all His angels and badgers and watchmen and redeemed thieves and reformed perjurers and deformed dogs barking silently whenever their guardian tugged their adamantine chains in love and not wrath and blessed them with the power of speech setting the world of words in perpetual emotion.
One should never butter one’s trousers, it is an invariable sign of a slippery character.
Only the vulgar spread butter directly on their toast. The correct behaviour is to apply butter to the eyebrows, then rub your face on the toast as required.
Always butter up, never butter down – a gentleman should already know this.
‘IMPORTANT NOTICE: known cat-butterers will not be admitted to this establishment.’
If you must butter your trousers, use unsalted. Nothing is so offensive to a police dog as blandness, and it is sure to let you go.
It is a false economy to repair watches using a margarine. Time is indifferent to cholesterol.
When buttering large buildings, start at the ground floor to discourage giant apes from even beginning to climb.
‘Now available: butter in a better bitter batter. Wrap it in bast or rub it on yr bust. Our boast: it’s the best battered butter you can buy!’
Traditionally, moths were suspended in butter, and butterflies in lard. Then some literalist got hold of the whole industry…
‘There is a butter world,’ as lunar optimists opine.
Prehistoric buttercups were so large they were often used as primitive clubs to settle butter-related arguments in the Early Margarine Era.
Using butter as an imaginative springboard, early civilisations predicted toast hundreds of years before the technology was even possible.
Using butter as a literal springboard has led to more serious accidents than any other household substance.
Philosophers have been trying to clarify butter for thousands of years, alchemists for centuries, but will it happen in our lifetimes?
In the desert of broken mirrors the sun reflects with the splendor of thousand suns.
At night neither darkness nor moon, all the light accumulated.
In the sea of broken mirrors the ripples were cutting reflections on their way.
The sea keeps at the bottom broken and salty reflections.
In the universe of broken mirrors the space was infinite: a duplicated labyrinth of triple nebulas, dark holes and fragmented suns.
In the past of broken mirrors memoirs were distorted, incomplete, multiplied. Reflections of ourselves cut us.
In the forest of broken mirrors, the wind moved the reflections and leaves crashed like crystals: mirror dust under the path of the wind.
In the clouds of broken mirrors, pieces of the world were reflecting.
When it rained, forgotten pieces of ourselves showered us, leaving us damp.
In the sun of broken mirrors storms raise and a thousand fragments reflect the light.
Everything melts and mirrors are formed anew.
In the future of broken mirrors, reflections shine, blinding.
We confuse fragments with precious stones. It is a single light.
In the rainforest of broken mirrors sounds are reflected.
Even at night, with the moonlight, the space is filled with murmurs and green sounds.
In the wind of broken mirrors, reflections howl, become swirls and go mad.
Some winds bring with them the reflections of the desert.
In the present of broken mirrors, fragments disorient us and confuse us.
Reflections divert us. We only hear the rustle under our feet.
In the city of broken mirrors, reflections of success, wealth, failure and pain get confused.
Astounded, reflections don’t move.
In the moon of broken mirrors, the gaze of the lovers and the mad are reflected.
In new moon, the secrets of the tide don’t go back to the sea.
In the body of broken mirrors reflected words run through veins and viscera.
Every now and then, some of them escape from lips and lungs.
A star falls, a maybe falls, the sky falls, the present falls.
A memoir falls, the snow falls, a curtain falls, the future falls.
The cold night falls, rain falls, the nevermore falls, the past falls.
The ashes fall, a perhaps falls, the backdrop falls, a tomorrow falls.
Hail falls, a cloud falls, a whatever falls, a now falls.
Midnight falls, the yesterday suddenly falls, the night dew falls, a then falls.
The afternoon falls, a who knows falls, leaves fall, a how late falls.
Mid day falls, a never falls, the pain falls, another future falls.
A tear falls, joy falls, coldness falls, all together falls.
A gaze falls, the remorse falls, a forever falls, an again falls.
Softly falls, abruptly falls, slowly falls, falls at last.
It is the river that runs across the bottom of the sea of dreams,
the agony that drills the rock,
the breath held,
It is the waiting.
It is the joyful water of the river,
the cotton candy,
the clouds traveling light across the sky,
the sweet that does not scald.
It is everything that is sweet.
It is the time that stretches,
the future that will never end,
it is everything that was,
what it will be,
what it will never be again.
It is the eternal time.
It is the wound open to the pain of salt,
and the insomnia,
it is the fear that runs through the skin,
It is the agony.
It is a row of days that you have counted ever since the beginning,
it is all the nights,
all the words,
repeated in the silence.
It is the persistence.
It is a tongue running across your territory,
It is the tip of your fingers signaling a path.
It is the fruit open to the bite.
It is the sex.
It is a colony of ants flowing through your veins,
it is the perfect second that stretches.
It is the ecstasy.
It is the dream you wake up to feeling the night’s gaze,
it is the moon’s suspicion,
the wind of darkness in your guts.
It is a dream.