Keeping the bagpipe calculus so
pure and doing it masterly
on dial systems,
a communist labyrinth of
security-monitoring tracking
the Mars bar all the way to the Drunk Englishwoman’s
heart and pussy.
Where above the switchboards
do you kite-fly your ash cloud?
The little ghost’s
outerwear is stretchy for
Chun-Li lightning kicks and atheism;
the business phones’ gray corpse’s
smell that you also find
inhabiting the communal microwave
or on the anxiety-sweated
rotaries. Every chatter melted on touch-tones
into schmaltzy bureaucracy
and company red tape sew together
all the cabbage patch kids’
personalities.
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