Smoke unhinged, just a medical symptom,
through which the mad millions don't notice
the squeaky toy self-healing – an extempore
effigy they've each skewered with a match.
A priest nearby observes that it no longer “makes a
noise like a squeaky toy.” It sounds like a wind chime
that has sustained some kind of trauma. “No,”
comes a mocking voice. “It sounds like a nun masturbating.”
In the mirror an aged, senile Humpty Dumpty says:
“I want a portal gun for my amazing corona of hair.”
Though such a device would facilitate clever shortcuts
in the hivemind, some quarters would stretch on
forever. Walled-off brick avenues. Amnesia
emphasizing non-electric brain-events. Spider crumb,
built from an accumulation of moonshine.
Micheal Myers puts constraints on his llama.
His llama is his bacon. The new complimentary
sauce is a pain killer. His bloodied victims regain consciousness,
always, via a gentle swab of a wet wipe.
You realize that if all your organs were
in slow motion, something fast is always gonna
interfere. With increased height off ground, Humpty Dumpty
looks more decadent, his chin more like balls.
His awful mastery of staircases. Time. Paranoia.
Picture him taking a big dump in a Tardis.