PUB SURGERY

Ready for my punch in the face now, so
rally round the out of season disgusting work of
this snub nose. The Pokémon tumor will have to put
up with me for a while – if only I can find the key
to the pub where the drunk physician once did
the xenomorphic facehugger circumcision. It was
on the bar counter and the rate was abominably low,
as the fascination was winding down
below peaks of orbital hangover, patrons
in the hot Tron glue of intoxication dragging
themselves glutinously through their individual
mouse mazes, a few disquieted taste buds still cracking
knuckles round the partly empty peanut bowls.

Just a meter away was the pervert chemical unknown.
The flamingo mercurial spit of cayenne arcing over
the facehugger, the sasquatch resuscitator freezing over
Steven Hawking’s penis. Flame-thrower subtle.
The Goonies unbefriended me on altruism’s reflective surfaces;
I realize not a physician in the land – neither one found
nude on treehouse shoulders nor one adept at Pythagorean
judo – can stop the spillage of this unhinged vending machine,
can smuggle this suspicious package through trenches
imperiled by the curse of the pogo stick. An old-school shark’s
traveling exhibition veils its secret life
as a starving 8-bit Tamagochi waif nodding on
a dream pushing a strange scent.

Spreading it like pasta over cement the technician
recalls an anecdote about a tumor who stole
his scissors and scissored across the bar counter
and straight on out through the door
like a man on long legs in a bowler hat. Spreading,
spreading, he says he won’t make that mistake
ever again.