Burnt inside with a lighter, a Trojan eyeful of
tiny red ants, the mind's sockets suppurating
with its many little burglars.
Or wearing a similar-looking video game mask in
swollen/infected/infested anticipation of stitches.
Boundary between factory and the cow
with the human hands. Elastic,
fingertips eager to remain friends with everything they stick to forever,
burning; the allergy adores
grabbing, it is irrational and correlates with violence.
At the same time a sort of abortion – like Star Trek
cancelled after all the humanoid lifeforms
began looking terribly sick in unitards.
Burlesque giggling emitted/sounding like a moo, petrol-scented
masturbation, stabbing with
Lenin's trustworthy, segmented prosthesis.
None are allowed to stand in the transporter room
but its hundred miniature legs.