Happy adults and shrinking grandparents in perfect health wave off
the others. The airplane window frames a piece of landscape, Europe
divided into visible lots. Briefly, I see its willows filled with easels, fountain
pens, bassoons and riding crops grow smaller. In brim-filled vehicles
impatient pigs are Good morning sir transported. Subsidised
their well-oiled withdrawal into raw material. Ham or cheese? Acerbic sparkling
wine produces nauseous burps in quota. Very well sir. Thank you. Please
please me is our English theme of the day. There you are.
 
World heritage, which is apart from various the arse crack
of the paver in the tourist snapshot. The whole
shebang belongs to me, for I too am eternally available for a short
time only, like your handiwork will fall to me after your death.
 
While we stamp our feet and dance on the skulls of pets,
plague victims and churchgoers, hurling better ideas at each other
on ways to be, what to spurn or who to torment with our
borrowed concepts I am not about to quote whole books here
my thoughts rise up in empty bubbles
from something to nothing
 
            my collection of beetles, dragon- and butterflies that I
stuck into notebooks with a glue stick, the scent of white envelopes
into which we flicked a chunk of dog turd with a twig, then sent it
unstamped to our classmates, the faces of old people who found
their garden chairs up in the trees, four taxis six bouquets sent for that
very afternoon another bridal cake for the befriended neighbours. Someone’s cat
we lured to our playing field with fish and with a hey-ho tossed into a piss-resistant fire
 
                                                                                    and I skim without a hint of
remorse and definitely haughty over these childishly cut-up provinces while I set out to polish up my thoughts to a sovereign sheen like the titanium-coloured jet engines of my arseforsaken scheduled flight whose belly in half an hour’s time will mostly reflect the alpine meadows, melting glaciers and shagged-out mountain slopes.
 
Instructive, when the precious is destroyed. Unburdened therefore I launch my
fair, attempted works without delay or woe towards the other world as I deem
myself exempted from the noble duty to accomplish something of note.
 
And besides, doll-gob-bomb Sun, no-one believes your globe’s middle o will ever smother;
that we’ll survive your frightful growth is warded off by future technology, or otherwise
the ample percentages of fire-retardants in our bloodstream. Meanwhile we take holidays
 
on our continent’s remaining fallow land, we inflame with rage at what is most photogenically
squandered in as far as it concerns related species and nag all night about
another person’s sickly self to stun our own manias, aberrations or depressions.
 
Daily suffering dissolves in pills with symbols printed on them as large as logos
that swagger boisterously volatile, or at least act adequately faint-heartedly distant
towards their former friends: the letters of the alphabet.
 
But, so as to not end on a bum note I will give – each study trip of course has insight
as its objective – three dry-as-dust instructions in passing (and preliminarily looking ahead to
the many times more spectacular passing) – for the future: gaze navel, mow lawn, ball foot.
 
Or rather:
            bust ghost: our heavenly sphere’s the blue-green gobstopper in
the mouth of an obese child that with googly eyes identical to
mine during the safety instructions is currently being held hostage
by three little piggies in row 28 – halfway down economy class so hey