That he's missing a human claw
at the peril of a bikini rotating
in a lion's smirk buoys Buck Rogers.
The journey only twists
through the lens, scantily
imposed uncanny valley
tattooed on Darknet
with a polite clap of nunchucks,
disappears beyond suspenders
winged way rapt, as he farts
pissed-fueled in the Uber connection.
Alcohol's talon as ill-fitting essence of
omnipresent aroused heel, tool of
mechanical joints grasped by Metropolis's
own spiky robotics, blogged
feathered from a spot of postdigital
arts and crafts fruit machine,
recurring Enrique emergent from 80sdistended porn silhouettes.