white on bitumen.

a blogbot got its mandibles into my fledgling prose.
a blockbot locked me out.
an unlockbot - which was really a person, an unlockbod - logged me on at last.
(silenced by a blogblocklocklogbot.)

i have a new typer. sleek, blackshelled, with timid keys yellow to the touch. its presence is a challenge: a prose a day. never to be pilfered from challenge part two: an online prose a day. location permitting.

i have been preoccupied of late with the footpath men. white on bitumen, eternally stepping, their legs wide scissors, i seem always to stand in their crotches. their vacant, sexless crotches. yet still i worry. about voodoo. about light-fixed men coming alive in the gloom. about the weight of a foot in a groin.

one such man has been re-endowed. a penis has been drawn in its proper place. also one in his hand, one near his invisible mouth, and one in pursuit from behind. as if the manhoods of all his predecessors had sailed towards him in the force of their attraction.