Sauron reclined on a gurney,
which to the young doctors pushing it
down the corridor sounds like Dial-Up
but to the dead wizard – evangelical.
My armpit is fun.
Stare through its windowpane.
Closing it, there is some cloudy crotch fusion.
The fly's face right by it –
craning its neck to look -
the slum heaving, then hissing with the intensity
of a packet of rice sinking to the heart of a quasar -
the fly's mustache vibrating in the threnody:
because my armpit is an educational singer that
provides a rush most addictive – but to the fly is
350mg of spectral maid, pulling me from
the shower, saving me from myself –
i.e. a filament weaponized, anorexia sparkling with
Kate Bush's clone does not care.
It is a male, Walmart-augmented blanket
infested with Axe body spray –
dressed as a witch with a ring of cocaine
resting squarely on its lips, gurgling acidic
dreams like mouthwash-dripping cocks into the livecam.
Sniffing its palm. Drawing powder from urine.
It does not care.