A Map Of Hoon

What land is on my map? A country I call Hoon, a land of clatter and banging, of hideous shrubs and rivers. My eyes reject its colours – it’s grey and blue in blotches. I keep a vinegar-stained map rolled up in my little suitcase. Proud, majestic, grand, I leapfrog in the darkness. My torch shines on my map, a map made by an idiot. One day I’ll lose my thread. I’ll stumble in the bracken, catch fire, blaze, then smoulder. That land was just a rumour.

5 thoughts on “A Map Of Hoon

  1. Frank, this has been mis-categorised as Prose. It is almost certainly a in a form of Verse. What kind… I do not know? Yet another mystery to add to all that is mysterious about the land of Hoon.

  2. Tristan : As you should know, here at Hooting Yard we abhor all forms of poetry, poesy and verse except when it is written by Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickinson, or Dennis Beerpint. I think what has happened is that you have identified a certain rhythmic quality, and some rhymes, which have led you to an erroneous conclusion.

  3. So we won’t be needing the poet cannon then and I’ll put the tarpaulin back on the venomous flying monkey cage.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.