My pet piranha's gingivitis betrays the age of the universe.
A thrill seeker with arrested development, and late onset delinquency,
an electromagnetic field puffs up around it – a clear skeleton
stands within a blurry silhouette.
'Levitate!' shouted the toy monger.
He ran out, drove to Whole Foods, found the trashcan
in back, yanked out the monster he'd cobbled together
from cubes of ozone and bits of a demolished arcade -
ripped out its lettuce heart.
'Levitate!' he shouted again, once home.
I will not trash this fucker, he swore – various
ghastly images of previous trashed creations leaping
to mind: two roach carcasses impaled on the same stick
in the attitude of a hug.
Magma, the phantom smear, the growling doormat:
Waldo's hydraulic reflex tore cables from the children's
psychic machinery – 'I'm leaving you, babies.' The unsightly
void left by the eponymous paper cutting.