Chained in the toilets. Hands driers for company. Hoping something drops.

Dripping from the top, exhaling anally now, his web’s in tatters.

Dreaming air hockey, floating along the decking towards the water.

Names echo empty in the Nintendo fortress: world without feeling.

The Honda-ride out for abominable chair-bears always comes too late.

Supermarket sweep until everything is gone; resting in decay.

K3P returns. Tethers us to a jumper, in three-way trousers.

The machine that sends a kiss from the receiver, finally alone.

Breakfast is a goat, and the woodlands drenched in oats – pour the stickiness.

We've been here before: waves chewing the horizon – flatulent climax.