Like mind abandoning meat,
Brundlefly's crimes affected the geometric.
A cannibal for intimacy, he needed
gross bits and pieces. Some bizarre fetish, perhaps?
Actually, his first taste of mayonaise wasn't
on meat but in meat. Not his own vomit,
rather the psychedelic pus of all human parts
put together. Pain snail-footing it along in its
shoe, all that lubricated light melting around
the shoe's black windows.
On which disco carpet you really couldn't
tell the shoe apart from an ambulance,
an ashtray, or, in analog, one of Brundlefly's computer's
sentence structures, crawling, in glaucus, deep-sea
transit, a tunnel-reinventing field trip reinventing
tunnels around every object in the
disgusting bachelor’s apartment ... making it strange.
A fly suddenly goes on auto-pilot (a truly funny thing).
Driven by plain curiosity, a plant might leapfrog
off the windowsill; crushing a car below.
A small dose of sunscreen waxes psychiatric
on tan, knobbly scalp. In bed, one fat, gator clawful
of crayons messily accentuates a lover's contentment/