The Secret Life of Punctuation

A little ampersand, lying on its back by the river, kicking its legs in the air with delight at not having to link anything to anything else.
*

An unshaven semi-colon, sitting in a cafe and wanting a smoke, but too half-arsed to do anything about it.

*

The commas lie around on the sofas and rugs of the endless unclean hotel, exhausted, all at sixes and nines with each other.

*

A full stop picks up your scent and rolls toward you. You realise it’s both enormous and malign. All the full stops in books were just far away.

*

The question mark swings from tree to tree, ululating plaintively. Every now and then it drops the ball it’s chained to, and plummets after it.

*

The dash can circle the world in the split second you look away and back. It clings to the page by thousands of tiny legs which you can’t see.

*

That exclamation mark is such a drip. It just hangs around on the corners of more exciting sentences, bringing everything down to its level.

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