A bit of unclean invocation and a cup holder,
and you have the entire set of Star Wars, actors, droids,
ships, helmet sweat. Fake? One lousy PEZ dispenser
can procure gallons of Hulk vomit. Is it fake?
A bit of angel undernail rot, harvested from grimy pages in
the comics section, laundered and worn as sort of panties –
the librarian's special exo-church; sitting in them
reading, something brings her back to her origins, something holy.
A beautiful stem cell glare around the region of her crotch.
Is this fake?
The cowboy wears fake socks – but they are not fake.
Or are they? They ought to smell comparatively OK, or at least they ought
to smell like nothing, instead a mixture of subway smells billows around them.
The voice of a kettle keeps his stupid horse immensely bloated.
The horse is definitely fake.
A pocket knife was all the geneticist needed to cut his housekeeper open,
and a blue-red cyber coil subsequently sprang up at him –
driving home the conclusion that the housekeeper was fake.
A computer simulation, maybe. The whole DNA looked suspicious.
The whole fucking geneticist himself looked fishy:
tombstone haircut post-sex pizza anomaly. That's some fake shit
right there. Mood-bombed synapse right-click. Imminent infinitesimal.
Imminent birth. Small but steadily coming into being.
For what? For whom? For his housekeeper? She only likes computer games.