The trees are a crust on his vision now The road, a distant harm below him now Replica whitewash stands in sheets Everything accounted for Having hoped for Algerian loneliness Nothing is now left His shoulders yearn for skirting board As his skin shrinks from carpet Cubism lingers in the walls As testicles bang in jeans He hates red brick chimneys wearing clay hats And all other practical error His head full of stacked furniture An indoor mountaineer He sits up dead in the fuelled air Legs hope to hit energy Cubism lingers in the walls As testicles bang in jeans He hates red brick chimneys wearing clay hats And all other practical error