GREEN TOAST

the smell causes a surgical mask to pile up tiny

the carcass, exploding,

gives things – an accurate use of release

onion ozone

and

garbage soda

nipple microbes (typical ward merchandise)

and

a symphony of

pouches

and a new meaning to the green effigy

hanging in an atheist's refrigerator; the big door before which

we all stand is so cruel, on the one hand, its ambiance reminiscent

of a vanity mirror, on the other,

insect-fucks blipping throughout the whole of

its garden, the body – decaying – an aphrodisiac sticking

toothpicks into insect abdomens

the chatter sounding like SMS rocks boxing 

their little megaphones shaping a closed environment;

an itch blows through the corpse

that's the start of the hobo's perfection

his hologram finds harmony in hanging off a city's building's branch

knows it's an accident waiting to happen

a river spilling its remains

into a shopping cart, uniformly,

adherence to

the safest treatment of a soul

self-automating

operator

in collection mode

reaches a kind of homogeneous toast, a possible beach,

a forecourt