At the turnstile stands a legionnaire. Light catches on his wet forehead. Perhaps he’d rather be elsewhere. Nonetheless – he checks the tickets. Over his gut, a pleather six-pack. Is he thinking of his daughter, if he has one, of her calf-deep in ocean water? Her summer-blonde hair. Her cheers: The whale sprays rainbows! And stares at him, one-eyed, from the banknote. Five humpback whales, eight hummingbirds. Yesterday the price was lower. This morning he adjusted it. Clergymen and civil servants do not pay. So he checks the tickets.

••••

And then the seam between two patches. Tar, shiny like skin. The place is naked. Artefacts. Litter in amphorae. Pale Fanta bottles. Honey echoes, no: water, in petrol cans. Its mineral flavour.

••••

Gethsemane, shadowy green, for once. Illegal smoker’s corner. Granny’s updo, backcombed. Her fan – a freebie, from the insurance agency. Granddaughter tugs her shorts to no avail. Her arse remains uncovered. Punishing looks. Undyed blonde. Innate? A hose winds through the meadow. From it, it weeps as if from snakes’ eyes. The smokers look around. Olives at their feet, unripe. People in linen mime the population. They sweep. They carry oil inside. Or grapes? Is this a flirtation? Digesting glances. Appetite. Metres of linen piled around their heads, their shoulders and their necks – if they have those. They look so similar. Hard to recognise yourself in them.

A member of the population wipes dust off the empty throne. It is too hot to sit. But if he came, the one no heat can match, if he sat here, he’d see the back of Golgotha. Wheelchair accessible. Halfway up, a legionnaire – another one, he’s rigid – and he is gobbling chicken thighs. Though in this country, you can’t just buy the thigh. It will be hanging on the muscle, just a bit, a shred. Enough to picture the whole animal.

From the golf course, floodlight threatens, even though the sun shines. Mesh bends in the wind. Click click – the sprinklers speak. They herald their next moves. No scientist transcribes them, no spaceship sends these sounds into the dark. You had to be there.

Brushstrokes betray this land as one of torture. The artist knows of cable lashings. He knows the colours the haematoma takes on.

Simeon is Black, and also, he is holy. The adulteress is Indigenous. Jets, not stones, whiz by. Jericho’s food court sits under the flight path. The city never fell. No reason to rebuild it. Meat. Cinnamon. They who are without sin. Many visitors are here for fun. They feel no need to kneel. Only adults. Still, there are giggles when the hostess turns up. On her cheek, the microphone – its colour mimics other people’s skin. Fireflies of spit as she speaks. A man orders a second beer. Stella, imported. The hostess indicates the size of Rome with her arms. Is she thinking of Italy? Of the village her ancestors once left, the steep, the stone-built one? For the children’s sake, she should, she knows, the passport – she doesn’t want to leave. But they, they should be able to. If they want, that is, as they shall want for nothing.

Noah’s ark anchors at the terrace. A woman shrieks. She just burned herself on the railing. Her husband points and shoots. It’s one o’clock.

No reception in the park. The charging bar creeps on as if – blue, urine-soaked – on paper. A single line, lonely somehow. Disappointment, then relief. The message doesn’t go out. Or it does, later.

••••

Inventory at the souvenir stand. Problematic keyboard: the letter that gets stuck just when you need it. And in its place: a blank. Recourse to others. Inflection of the script. And then – when nobody expects it – it does come out, a thousand times, all over. Vvvvvvv – overwrites what is already there. Vomits itself out – vvvvvvvv. Like a bird, the V: a body tensed for ascent, pulling itself up on itself.

••••

Small shadows. Under plastic palms, real ones. What makes the plastic fake, though it is real: It doesn’t rot. Instead of fruit, these trees bear cameras. Pupils. Black lustre, and it breaks.

These people bending and stretching, smiling their service smiles – whether they’re fleshy or just mock-ups: The onlooker decides. Even if it’s already been decided.

••••

The saviour’s clearly visible from the fun pool. In the park, you merely see his feet. His dress’s dirty hem. It is impossible to believe in him.

A woman climbs the execution mound. She holds her hand up, palm-down: Is she protecting her eyes? Discovering a continent? She sees: five pools, communicating. Two slides and a snack bar. Clouds, puffy like soft serve.

Those worshipped sweat behind acrylic. A child, holding a picture of his future execution.

••••

“At the end of the 16th century, a converted Indian went into the bush and encountered a group of savages from whom he escaped by hiding behind a tree trunk. He begged the Virgin Mary to save his life. When the danger was over, he carved an image into the trunk that had offered him protection.”

So it is written. In photos: dignitaries, standing right here, in front of the same walls where they now hang. Plaster. Historical figures whose existence no one vouches for. Animals whose appearance means something. Dioramas.

••••

Leaving the park is not easy. Or it is. A passer-by crawls into a trash can. Yellow greenery, dust. Taxis don’t stop. Glances from air-conditioned cars. And finally – the bridge, which is a cage. Fully wired. Young wastepaper dealers push past, apologising.

Time no longer percolates. It spreads, puddling on the cage floor. But there’s no drain here! Where to put it? Soon the chicken will be wading through it. Soon – What’s that supposed to mean? Well, time’s still passing. But whereto is not known. The traders smile their tired smiles. They are wearing plastic slides.

And then – a sentence in the sky. Beautiful chemtrail writing: Don’t let anyone tell you that your ambition is immoral.

Who owes these boys a thing, an explanation? Do they know about the courthouses? What do they know of them? Law as a child’s game – when you play charades, you have to guess a word. It may be paraphrased, but not spoken.