Despite haste in permanence garlanding, the hairy clump of smeargod
on the inside of the aisle, without co-ordinates he fills himself, emaciates,
viscously settles in and spreads out. Almost unbelievable that he doesn't start
peeling away; but he's tense, Lot holds him tied by his sandals,
the other end of the thread is pierced through the fingertip of a pale
daughter of Munch.

Above, I may presume that it's still carrying on. In the grey fabric of the cloud cover
and above the damask is where the universe is said to be. The universe in us high above,
below, on, beyond, beside us, the universe without a street map bores
through me, heat-resistant, as though I were the corner of the globe.

That it's not carrying on. No guided tours anyway. The tourist ding-dong train is
starting vertically today and chugging towards the moon. If anybody's hungry
she can pick beans. If she needs to have a pee, please wait, soon
it'll pool and hover off. From star to forehead the woodchip massages us
differently, but the ether drifts in un-ending nearness away from us. Clicking
with flash startles the meteorites, shy as a boss who lacks nothing.
On the backs of the sweet little seals which are up here like in heaven,
honestly, oyster-coloured blotting paper grows, then it slides
away singing a song all the while until it's settled into my hand,
then it falls silent, but carries on humming without sound. The letters
that were pressed away get up and climb with their comical feet up the
ladder of the humming into my ear; there's a ringing again, ringing a sea shanty,
the wings of the gulls souls of the sailors, the soul of the sea
a prayer.

I'm hungry. I was promised beans. I take off my 3D glasses
and notice how flat the head is of the person sitting in front of me.