I want a foot rub in
the electric chair's pretty smog.
How about you, baby? You wanna see a
cross-section of my stump?
Cotton's gentleness on space-time.
One's home as a small area beneath the sky
crammed with deranged urban simulacra –
there's a tiny necropolis in the bathtub,
full of salts that really get under your skin...
Pipes twisted horrifically.
Like a model citizen, bringing your car to a halt
at the Tesla traffic bagel.
So much mud is thrown up the rear of the triangle,
a fragment of landscape,
an arcade totally dehydrated.
Jar Jar Binks' morning wood finding a home
as a sparking, crackling glitch swirling
at the bottom of a can.