Monday, February 13, 2012


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.

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