Did you know I spent the summer here
handing out the word of truth? Yeah,
I doubt it. Flyers touted, no success.

The universe exists. It has no explanation,
the first line read. And the second:
we’ve got too many ideas to waste time 
washing up. Our dream home is a luxurious 
penthouse beyond the existing framework. 
A wine-glass vibrates on the floor and splits.

I cried that night. The bulbs lit up —
a hundred string-lights scattered out
on plastic lines like beads on thread.

Call this voicemail vengeance, call this page
unread, call this chronophagic, call this 
autocorrect. 		The candles lose shape, we burn

the lard, wax slinks down the tablecloth.
I fall. I die again. And then finally I wake up. 
I dreamed I crushed your drugs to dust,

awoke by that platform to the æther,
finding cheques in rail-line detritus,
unfixed shapes faxed out in gusts.

One world, there is, for each possible state
and with just a simple change it's lost.
That was the year of youthful lust. Peel
off the cellophane. 		Yes. I still remember it.
Yes. Somehow I still remember that.