Bundled and bundling out of one’s passage,

they fall. All woolled-up, and tangled-up with each other –

tight. Heads protruding from sheaths. Translucent and streaked with

blood. With one’s own blood. From the blood within the passage from whence

they tumbled, all bundled-up and packaged. All packaged-up and white, I vomit,

bundles and bundles of wool. All ready to be needled-up, stitched-up, pearled-up, and

knitted. Fearing the end, I cast it all off, wrap it all up, and flush it all down, raising it up,

all ready for show time.


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, March 2019

‘Yarn’ image, courtesy of

Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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