Projecting projected adulthood,
pre-empting thin air and what we think we've plotted on charts.
Tinfoil ejection blown out of the fighter jet,
spoiling around the service ceiling,
the instinct to be burning the yoghurt pot to find its original form,
skinning,
cling film for the adult to creep about without a youth to dull.
Utility shelved, I'm tired of myself anyway,
could just as well be tired because I dittoed.
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