A contagion burbles in this hopeless strip club's candlelight –
troll semen on the carpet, or the sticky juice of Soviet satellites'
leaking, tinfoil diapers. Tampering with a spacecraft's bumper sticker
is addictive: until it looks like a fossil, but of the curio store variety,
hand-crafted, from so much wear, distance; wilted.
How many invertebrate fingers, stacked, smooth, served
in tasselled condoms, jaw-proof except to worm-hunters and/or
Blade Runners, have lunar McDonald's patrons dislocated?
How many llamas has Gary Busey, in Nazi uniform, a transparent,
geological marshmallow, his gait described in chiptune, chased
down pharmacy aisles?