The composition of any given aura is a painterly

mix. So I’ll choose the shadow colours grey and

pixelate. However the cold comes this year I will

wear that same grey chorus and my own corona

—should I imagine—will be as rich with matter

as a furnace. Help, I’m seriously thinning. Not

in body but metaphysics. Seriously pale in the

main street and in bed—surfing a thin line—

in the blanket—heat—and thinner in the water.

At the gallery I slipped one out. All over I’ve taken.

This ability to fetish is downplayed—black behind

that sheer—and where a caption could emphasise

percentage grey in style. Trolleys,

automotive parts, the history of photography

and film, now in union throats and disclaimers plus

that famous sliced eye. This fetish travels—and has

to do with how we move—skeletal, adrenal

and related systems. The days are seriously slow

stereo—why not adding in a socket—for the old gas tube.