I plant forests, and they wither behind me. There’s a traffic light in my heart. Which colour? I don’t know. The high-pitched whine circling my head isn’t a vulture, it’s my halo. My double haunts me in windows and lakes; the size of his eyes erodes my mettle. Wherever I travel, metal detectors go mental and the stink of burnt sugar stalks me – crackling, always crackling. When I fuck, my mind drifts. My whores say it’s a lack of friction. I guess I’m made of cold blood, my skull is full of earwigs, my visions littered with wheezing stars: in the mirror on the ceiling, miracles have ceased. I blunder across these bitter nebulae, hemlock on my tongue – no wonder I’ve got the sniffles! Only a nightmare will help me sleep tonight.