Acid Trip in a Portapotty

Plastic space ship, time capsule phone booth. Last townhouse in a row bordering a suburb of tents, a downtown of hill and stage. Blue walls, sweet cloying disinfectant. The escalator inside you is a thermal vent is a lake heated to boil is an eye gone full pupil. Something shifts outside, changing the light, and you’re a lone outpost on the moon. You’re a coat-check girl in her little cubby deep in Marianas Trench. You’re trapped under two kilometres of glacial ice (the ice is heavy, calm, aquamarine). There’s a knock on the door—it’s the ice wanting to get in, wanting to scratch you, mark you, gargle boulder potholes into your skin (From far away, laughter). Something shifts. Time forgets itself. Your vertical tub fills with fossils, skeletons, detritus of a trillion spines, a trillion spins, the sweet heady reek of endlessly proliferating biomass, clacking and jostling—a knock on the door. Time slows to the wind-smoothed peak of a single heartbeat. Remember your breath, remember your feet on the ground, your skirt bunched at your knees, your hair in its tight summertime bun, the music that waits outside the grey door you will touch as little as possible; remember to wipe. Release yourself to joy. Outside, something shifts. The world glows blue. You leak everything from everywhere.