Diary

If we were made out of wood, would we use tree surgeons? every man a
sculpted adonis weeping sap and shavings, every woman so wide at the
bust and thin at the hips, she's in danger of falling in half, the
shouts of "TIMBER" filling the high street shop. only those with
minds and nobbled limbs refusing to conform, happy in their jumbled
leaves and swirling knots. I'm proud of my roots, they maybe gnarled but they're me.