An ambulance out of nothing – out of hollow whale chained to crisp parking lot –
with a side of Steve Jobs's head in a bear trap, less an electron than
a regular plugin. Pug flesh combed by its soothing atom.
A homeless man sleeps beneath this monument to youth –
a mashup of regular flesh and bones – talking, talking; the IKEA stick a cop beat him
with gave him a sex change. A spreadsheet of this still languishes there as
a memorial of the time the robot bourgeoisie, wrapped in futuristic jaundice, began to
understand Marty McFly, who in a manly voice insisted: “Instead Skeletor –
though homosexual – should be TIME's most biological person of the year.”
Commercials spread thin behind 3D glasses on a troll's nose.
“Progressively,” Walmart sexualizes the crooked spectrum with the zen of fermentation,
branding itself pro life, arming celebrity holograms with learning devices
to fight like regular babe magnets; their ghosts spit in the sand.Nobody cares.