Temple Bar pub crawler
What are his axes? Up-down, back-forth;
Left-right; time past and time to come? No!
He has lost his grip of space and time;
Length, width and height have inwardly curved;
He loops around his curled dimensions,
He is in a higher dimension
Where the force of gravity is barred;
A pub crawler, waiting for the grip:
the event horizon, the black hole,
And entropy. His puking rest-mass
Lies on granite sets in Temple Bar;
He’s exhausted his capacity
For yet further entropic increase,
And dryly retches flat on Fleet Street.
And dryly retches flat on Fleet Street.
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