A prop job with the tse-tse fly shakes like a
ukulele strumming My Little Grass Hut like a
kaleidoscope undergoing the shudders shattering then
coalescing as a map but it’s alright darling
Marlowe just thinks he’s a desert island with a
fountain pen & 1 solitary Royal Palm
He’s actually an Easter Island fetish dressed in a
tux aloft in a shuddering lawn swing surveying a
distant landscape that hasn’t got many
mouths or ears or eyes tho
the wind’s got an armload of black & white photos
swirling like so many undead shadows The
prop job hunts for any chimney it can descend into
in lieu of a dead volcano