Gatwick

Gazing eagerly into the volcano. My lips are an arrogant mask of yours: Some other people there, charred bodies lying under the lava (they were the only witnesses), and you still bumbling, shrouded in those singed cement bed sheets. For archaeologist we had already lived somewhere else at exact dates before, even aeons. But you well know that we exist but as mere survivors of this benumbed plastic generation, for only in the volcano’s kernel can we couple: so don’t ask me to light up the red end of your burning cigarette.