Tuesday, May 1, 2012


The body is a portable platform.
The roadside signs thereon are
constant phantoms. To blink at them
is to slap human eyes. Every once in a while,
a model train would be really good for the mind.
But for the majority of time the mind is a violent
video game, with something burgeoning in its crack.
Digital protozoa a doozy of a wank.
A keyboard shortcut for the solitude,
wriggling like a tumor crucified.
In a costume this ventilated, it feels
like the soft bits running from a
cheese grater in a microwave oven.
Phantom arms perfect for multi-tasking.
Diagnosis: an ogre.
My tumor can't even fail at murder-suicide.
Even while dialing, it's already bugging
the recipient of the call.

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