The trees are a crust on his vision now
The road, a distant harm below him now
Replica whitewash stands in sheets
Everything accounted for
Having hoped for Algerian loneliness
Nothing is now left
His shoulders yearn for skirting board
As his skin shrinks from carpet
Cubism lingers in the walls
As testicles bang in jeans
He hates red brick chimneys wearing clay hats
And all other practical error
His head full of stacked furniture
An indoor mountaineer
He sits up dead in the fuelled air
Legs hope to hit energy
Cubism lingers in the walls
As testicles bang in jeans
He hates red brick chimneys wearing clay hats
And all other practical error