Don’t Forget Your Boffs


I’m in a shop. Mick Voo is returning something. I borrow a book, it looks like something The Residents may have written about the occult. Upstairs is a music shop. I admire a 50’s red flute. The staff in different departments jam a version of the Beatles ‘Let it Be’.

I walk into a side room, my mother is there, in a drum circle. The teacher tells the class of an exercise where each of them hits their drum in turn, getting steadily faster so it sounds like one continuous drum roll. I press a sample on my iPad to demonstrate. The teacher nods.

People play me a couple of songs they’ve written about how great I am. I’m close to tears. I leave the shop, Mick has waited for me. We catch a dark blue double decker bus. I’m lost in a vision, clutching a rifle, and I miss my stop. The driver fetches me and turns round to drop me off in the right place. He tells me that I will enjoy the book.

I see a vision, a flash of the books content. A woman stands naked on a bed. At different points her skin ripples and turns in upon itself, fleshy waves always changing.

I’m back walking to work on the roadside. A van reverses into a school. I’m late back from my lunch break, but I have no idea what the time is. I pass the shop again, and the owner comes out to give me a pink packet of Boffs. These are psychoactive tablets that make everyone else look like Frank Bough.

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