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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