The thinker of comic strip poetry
Has left them on his dusty mental mantelpiece

There is too much pain in the sky
Searching for a ball of string

Before he realises it the comics are laughing
And he is in the back of a car being taken to prison

This plain air in his mind
Is waiting for a train to pass through

Then he can go back to his litter tray
And lay with his alphabet

Do they realise that this plain air
Is in a bucket buried in the sand?

Finally, he realises that the pigeon is not coming home
Is he now afraid to create comic strips?

His comic strip thoughts frighten him a little
The tip of the iceberg is connected down below to the ocean

He is like a wooden monkey on a stick
He scrapes the sky with his fingernails

What is he expecting from his newfound plain air of mind
He is spread out along the edge of the farmer’s field

Should he abandon his space capsule?
And swim to the moon?

This is all to do with the neglect in his face
And the way that the carpet disintegrates over time

The welcome mat smells of the dust of time
The astronaut sees a golden being trapped between two worlds

He can no longer delay his new comic strips
A little white mouse calls out to him through time

Instead of real people, he offers you comic characters
Instead of real feelings he gives you mime