Angels

 

Hanging his swan-feather wings on the wire coat-hanger Mr Pi set his L.E.D. alarm clock to detonate at 3:14am before gently lowering himself into the wooden bathtub, avoiding, with practiced skill, the sections of orange peel and cinnamon sticks.

 

Ever vigilant, he ensured the cassette player was balanced at a suitably precarious angle on the bath-tray and pressed “PLAY”

“Today I wrote nothing” he heard himself say.

“But it was nothing of importance”

And with that the water began to spiral widdershins.

 

Meanwhile the destitute poet, strung-out on synthetic acid, injected into his eye with a porcupine quill syringe, proof reads Ch 13 for the threatening Bishops of Medway.