Six small clocks, three and a half minutes apart.
Chairs grow legs and wrap them around trees like mechanical tarantulas.
With the stretching tiny laces and straps from my back,
I'm levitating now.
This is the burning of the port of morrow!
The damp is walking through my paper door.
Burn your dreams now!
Your new horns...
Your swollen forehead.
I don't like them, so I'll just saw them off.
