Everything that’s going on
is wrong the wind is getting strong,
and I can’t tell which way, between
these concrete reaches for the sky,
will take me to the place I want to be.
She just stands and looks out
at the sea, and wonders what
is down there and hopes
that I am above it in my
vessel made of metal from my teeth.
From the circulatory system
of her father she makes a wreath,
and at the center of it rests
his brain still attached to his eyes.
What a horrible surprise
for anyone somehow knocking
on her door.
No one visits anymore.
Teleporting Typewriter 