Please take his seat

He thinks,
all accusing, at the profile in the next seat,
the luggage rack rattling defensive snake.
He thinks, yes sweetheart under your ass is a ring of conceits.
But for now he talks of the end of the landscape, while the plane hangs ball bearing in sky monolith.

He is imagining her rucksack on the conveyor belt of terminal 3.
She is carrying food shopping,
she has a bad fidget.
They strap themselves in to poly-mix seats.
He thinks he might like a kiss from the hostess,
hair all static streamers, praying ovaries
breasts hungrily repeating in his memory.
He is sleeping.
Turbulance, fiancé, washing machine.

He wakes in his seat, eyes cocktail,
lips sirloin, breath dead people.
There is a packet of crisps in his pocket,
he would like to eat
his realisation milk maps spilt under the fridge,
he needs to wee,
his spine is obliging,
he stumbles down the alley.
He is shopping for hostesses talking of the landscape and its perforating poly-mix,
he is sky monolith, snake seat, ass conceit, accusing ball bearings of ruining washing machines
he crashes into the cockpit.