My shadow-self sat unshaven in amongst the car-batteries. Worm treacle shaman. A haven for germs. Insert my stunt-double in place of Inverted Reaper #B. Soiled beards stuck on backwards, stuck on billboards. I walk to the end of Pier 13 on stilts, silently weeping. Bruised truths. A moth made from Lego. "Turn on the water-cannon, amigos," she hissed, half-hidden in the steam, her hair a mass of wriggling fingers. The Catalogue of Warts - a rare first edition bound in crumbling tree bark. The Pope coughed unexpectedly. "He was a complete rascal, your husband."

Pierce The Swollen Veil one last time, my heart, my eyes, my skinny milk-skinned beloved. My uncoupled ardour sweeps through the streets of brittle swollen light on a mist of tears.