In which the astronaut had been hanged.
It looked organic under a microscope.
Space was that able to refine his mud.
Before it lost interest, gunned
him down from an airy black baby stroller –
his wardrobe a personification of
the staplegun's healing doom –
robotic holder bled his asshole,
retina buckled, the moon lost resonance.
The doll when provoked by candy was gross.
“Necrosquirt.” A fart slurping through the widow.
NASA brought heaven down and fried it
in a saucepan. The astronaut took
one look at light-blue muscles in a jar;
it looked like Freddy Krueger sprained
his face. “His face is now shit.”
NASA screwed our finest radiators
to those goddamned rockets.