The
body is a portable platform.
The
roadside signs thereon are
constant
phantoms. To blink at them
is to
slap human eyes. Every once in a while,
a
model train would be really good for the mind.
But
for the majority of time the mind is a violent
video
game, with something burgeoning in its crack.
Digital
protozoa a doozy of a wank.
A
keyboard shortcut for the solitude,
wriggling
like a tumor crucified.
In a
costume this ventilated, it feels
like
the soft bits running from a
cheese
grater in a microwave oven.
Phantom
arms perfect for multi-tasking.
Diagnosis:
an ogre.
My
tumor can't even fail at murder-suicide.
Even
while dialing, it's already bugging
the
recipient of the call.
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