NOW THAT THE AC’S DOWN

The apartment’s AC has to be trained to do the ‘obnoxious sniff,’ to make it a better environment for giant insects. I want to be taught the empty gesture’s sideways movement, to perform it without hesitation. With amped kneecap in robotic hoodie, it used to be such a great co-pilot, but we parted ways. I want to blend reality with elephant lips; through its grill my AC said that’s more harmful than crashing truffles. With acoustic guitar and rose in teeth, it decided to direct the fitness montage of Doctor Octopus in ski boots. I’m lonely now, of course. But today in the personals I saw that the human liver is learning from the whitewash, and needs help taking smarter, more economic cues from jingles stuck in its head. Fright bleaches – that’s what I learned. And that the rescue will pass you by if you’re stuck in airplane porn. And Mars will become one of the caterpillar’s eggs. And sanity’s landing strip will slather fake balm over her wheels – the instant she grows into a piñata whose gramophone heart will be a byproduct of shattered absence. A raider of fake tunes’ heart. My favorite faker.