Airport screeners can see muscles caused by laughing,
recycled Möbius strips, pancreatic oysters splashed
across the insect visor – and they are therefore
pseudo-scientific, they have more fun doing Chernobyl silkscreens
or spotting odd body carve-outs, death rays giggling
at old kidney transplants, lame facial piercings.
The photon mass settles on the mascot’s wrist,
blue fingers fondling the object found – a strange bracelet –
its molestation leaving steamroller or moon rover tracks filled
with corn: then, finally, you melt and you know
what it’s like when the Japanese marshmallow cult
has dealt with you.
But that’s nothing compared to the ‘transformative’ feeling
you get subsequent to nibbling warts on a sea serpent –
the feeling of feeling like your insides, a body bathed
in neon sabermetrics, a desert of eggwhite spinning
on a needle, coming apart at the edges and
hurling slivers of Amish newsprint and mildew.
When choreography is broken down into quanta,
its aim to depict lawnsprinkler madness,
that’s when you get true bile on a stick. You can’t say exactly
how you feel now that you’ve turned into
a freak who goes on roadtrips on post-apocalyptic Segways (robbed
from the security guard in your escape prior to the time
everyone sported scales or rusty radiator grills)
hallucinating toy-commercials, socializing (in your rags)
with campfire-side allegories. Or even if such things
as allegories still exist.
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