In a haunted painting on the side of a bus, Jaws III smirks
big Coca-Cola letters that follow you. As if to uproot weeds
from a treasure map, a postprandial tongue elbows shark molars.
Shark eyes follow, too, watery – i.e. subterranean windshield shavings
spill from twirling optic parasols onto the dashboard's rape van
loinleather. Eyes fed and still connected by hunger-tubes to Santa's brain
(a machine which nuzzles what it thinks about). Serial killer physics
dribble from a boiling clock onto the titular shark's antlers,
like Satan's tweets disappearing in pizza, mimicking subconsciousslowburn.