Fred Herring

Fred Herring? He didn’t have a clue. Never knew that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time – time after time – and was so often mistaken for a case of déjá vu, that he seemed to be what he was, in fact, not.


He was a poem in the midst of purple prose, wearing a yellow tie. Why? Nobody knows. In his buttonhole a blue rose, and in his top pocket, a handkerchief, upon which he blew his nose. Then again, he was wearing a T-shirt and shorts in the coldest of days; imagination plays with the senses, you see a ship jumping fences, which sends you to sleep; and you slip between the sheets of a thousand page essay upon the subject of abject subject poverty in the time of the Russian Emancipation of the Serfs. And, what’s worse, nobody cares.


Theirs is the rub. A Dub-dub is just as extinct as a Dodo; but, to hypothesise is a no-no.


Where, you may ask, is this going?


I have know-no way of knowing?


I only right the things – rite?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s