KFC

Must be nice if you’re in a padded, big-butted costume and you’re
getting into those hillbilly vibes, walking past
the facial recognition camera that is take-away food’s
motherly eye. It starts out feeling like bee stings
only now it’s pure nudity. The pest
can see you’re wearing the sadness of a chicken. Paradoxical oversized
coupon rhyming cholesterol. Must be nice if
you’re a nice invention, if you’re
something nice that sinks in the ultraviolet ray, gristled concrete
anti-bodied by grizzly physics, cooled into bitchy bones, wings that smell
like a lazy person sluggish with industrial arms clawing at
mature offal. Your baby will be branded, a can-shaped excretion:
this shows nobody’s infallible. Get up: soap
can still be made out of bones, makeup out of shit!
KFC’s latest sandwich developed psychic powers. And everyone
thought it couldn’t get any greater.
Then it wrote about itself. And the world saw something terrifying:
the anatomy of a duck-face.
See, the burger was a chicken in its underworld. From its sealed suit –
from its claw-spangled rear, its two chins – dropped this gross, genetically
poisoned thread and into its breather tube
flowed such sinister Mc-clown-speak. Something down there
in the dark, something with crusty flu in its mouth – well, it was
preparatory to the mutant tantrum.
I used to be a bank clerk who believed in ghosts – I was
my own person. Now my beliefs are fucked by legumes.