A pier is a disappointed bridge
(said Stephen)[1] 
A pier is being disappointed. A child is being beaten. There beneath the glitter balls daubed in unctuous pigeon shit, a child is screaming. Shut it. I’m eating. I’m eating my pickled onion. I’m sipping on my Slush Puppy which is something I haven’t sipped on since I was a child, screaming. I’m disappointed. My disappointment is my glory. My disappointment is a glitter ball not falling.
[2]
I eat the pier, promise crammed (parafictional)
(parafuckingfictional, baby)
(hey baby).
She’s enormous. She’s exquisite. He’s gobbing gob over the railings. Gob gets shot between my eyes while I wait to hurl beanbags at tincans. I win at hurling beanbags at tincans.
I’m reptilian. I’m what you never were nor never was could be. She’s nibbling. His arm is fast as mine is
hurling curling. Activities for the passive resistant. Anxiety not falling into the sea. Parafictional, literally. Hurlyfuckingcurly baby.
I did not drown completely, and when I did not drown completely, I did not surface neither. Unchained horrendous dodgem technology. Call it technique call it pointed disappointment. Glory. Hole. Completely.
My superpower is not existing.
[1] James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)
[2] Joseph Mallord William Turner, The Chain Pier, Brighton (c1828)
WHENWEBUILDAGAIN 