Monday, April 21, 2014

Crooked

Pluto, spread out before me like the yawn of a budgie.
Chernobyl, resounding with the guitar solos of, and used
as a toilet by, the ghost in the Matrix.
Vape clouds, staining the Girl Scout's love-brain.
Snake oil, the haunted goo of a Ku Klux Klan subtweet.
The church's brand, loneliness, skywritten.
The smell of a bloody pew.
Yellow, uprooted commercial gore, magnified.
In the vacuum of Silicon Valley's death-circus.
In the blender of a cryptid's holy bite.
Impaled, on the hashtag of a giant kiss.
Transformer flower-weight, immersed.
Like two insects, in wedding-cake slapstick.
Hubble, before it became a rabbit hole.   

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