I draw a map inside my shelter; browning leaves fill my brain
The second moment within the first minute always remains
But the hours slip into the lowest gear
			Lower still is the concept, the idea
That time has no map no form no reality nothing here.
So I put down my book, Nova Express, over the cover I peer.

The darkly images of Burroughs’ world strikes a chord
But the question of where did he find such strange words
The answers that ensue amuse the tiniest of intellects
Minds that measure existence unfortunately disconnects.

His wild antelope face creases into a slimy smile,
He often refers to a line of white hot ants in miles
That march along his arms, marching to the beat of strobes
Sliding up one side of his body upwards to ear lobes.

The line he used was full of powder congealed into glue
But the phrases he uses slouch backwards catching you
But not really of this place nor as a mere substitution
He rearranges his lines cut up fold in method abstraction.

While the white ants cascade into blue words, red skies
we have the smouldering ant hills looking from yellow eyes
that should be cleared away but no one know how to
in the back rooms of the mind a white explosion ensues.

Bill gives my hand a spade full of white hot ant eggs
Microcosms of metropolitan chaos and disorder
His snatches my arm, the white ants are waiting
Then I feel nature collapsing, the needle is still dripping
Now I shall have to try and find another way out.