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Telling a joke that fails, or explaining a joke that still fails.
Writing a joke that fails. 
Continuing to write the same joke in different formats. 

And he stared. He looked and couldn’t turn away. In the distance no music played. It seemed that nothing existed beyond. It was just him.

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it’s strange that i can call you now an old friend

refer to you as such, like furniture or a farting cat

a fixture that i’ve drawn around myself with age

something safe like a book with each page stained Read the rest of this entry »

It is 4.45am on March 12th. A flock of Canada geese is passing over my house, on the wing before long before dawn, but I am already awake, sat in the warm, still darkness of the kitchen with my hands wrapped round a mug of black coffee. The first time I ever heard Canada geese was when I was a boy in Scotland, somewhere up around Inverbeg. We used to go on family holidays there, driving up from Glasgow in an Austin Allegro to sit in a caravan by a rain-lashed lake for a weekend. If the sun did come out – moving slowly out of the shadows of thunderheads, wan and opaque, like a recovering invalid, with no heat to it – clouds of black fly would follow and we’d have to stay in the caravan anyway. I remember lying in the army surplus sleeping bag that belonged to my Uncle Ian, curled up inside the warm hibernal darkness, the seam folded over my head like a cocoon, reading the Beano by the spotlight of a weak torch. I remember hearing the geese calling overhead.

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