Metallics collapse inward, super symmetrical shafts of elemental light fuse from the undercarriage of conceptual spacecraft. “I'm debunking.” said the scientist. She lowered her hair. She had tattoos of organs in their anatomically correct positions. Midst low pressure nothing nine astronauts circle the earth, jerking off. "How many people are in space right now?" Somehow one had been trapped in zero gravity with a DVD stuck on repeat. The back of his face moulded itself gently onto steel before bouncing off harmlessly time after time. Other useless satellites squirted around the earth, bouncing like pigs in shit above the gravitational clutch. Their waves hung around in the infinity, the kafkaesque metal foetuses from the genes of time. Beneath; aircrew included someone with dank, flying through ash clouds in silver jumbo jets. Skeletons of the octogenarian flange appearing miles above the vile vortices, viewed through eyes bloodshot with cheap vodka. The compulsory fixtures of crab like things, hard and cold.
Hand shapes produced with excitement into bathroom fittings. Chrome reflecting jubilees of bodies, the polaroid cinema style supplying safe flashbacks of the connection points between. Duchamp often pretended he could project pieces into space, the future art for the men up there. "Duchump."
