WizzAir - W95704

I’m the cryogenic fluid
and the fake chill breath it breathes
and the air-conditioning’s motor
and the clinging cold that cleaves,
and the queen under the castle
(that’s the castle on the cloud)
and I’m somewhere in the fibres of that John the Baptist Shroud.
I’m my luggage at the airport now
The gateway to the earth
Where I’ve learned how to talk, burned cheese onto pork, and winced all over myself
Because I’m Peggy Lee’s W-O-M-A-N
and Leonard Cohen’s Man
And the flightpath back to London
in a Kosovan finger span.
Once I land I’ll be the insect bite
That looks like it’ll scar,
As I walk to the corner shop on Friday night
in odd socks and no bra.
I’m the right-brained feeling-feeler
Who orders steak and is its fat.
I’m the left-brained thinking-thinker
and I sport the amygdala hat.
I’m an eyeball on stilts, firing along, 
and each godforsaken thing.
I’m a shifting decision, a turn of the tracks, 
and the sum of one part of the spin.
I’m that wheel within a wheel 
from Noel Harrison's famous hitch.
If I’m everything, I’m nothing, 
so I might as well not switch.
I’m a t-shirt I’ve posted to Kingston
and the shop I stole it from.
I - I (numerically) – am a lanky number one.
I - I (numerically) – am a sunspot on the sun.
I – I (numerically) – am the biggest thing I’ve done
on a highway near Tirana
where, speeding, I finally saw
That if I get to be everywhere,
I also make the law.
It decrees I'm the bad day prisons
and my crying in my purse
but I also am Lake Ohrid
where the four white swans rehearse.