Thursday, April the 1st, 2010
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Wooden pig, oh wooden pig! Wallowing in the wooden mud. The sky is made of harder wood and the sea is harder still. The wooden sty is by the sea, the promenade is varnished. The grunting of the wooden pigs drowns out the cries of sailors. Wooden mariners on wooden ships, wrecked against the rocks. Will they make it safe to shore? Can they swim the wooden sea? The wooden moon hangs in the sky. The varnish shows its blisters.
Petrified sailors, petrified sea. Petrified pigs in wooden mud. No clocks tock, and all is still. Close the wooden shutters.