I
bore no resemblance to a heap of bones
after
my castration via jetpack-fail.
Airlifted
on my kinetic hoof.
With
like arachnid tubes swinging
tautly
through gross lapses, like
a
ponytail's metabolism retailing
the
smell of used floss. Steal until I
become
three reeds of light bending through
a
speck on the display window; sound
unhealthy
while leaving the planet; and look
like
an anus, with like giggling larvae in situ
acting
abashed. Your beak is your locator,
but
suction cups are still advisable. Unquote.
Though
some areas of the fantasy world
radiated
by booger-oil cannot be climbed;
some
areas vibrate as if dry. Bits of worried
fishbowl
indicating the bathroom is occupied.
It's
Vader becoming molecular for a few minutes
in
there. The feeling he gets like it's all over,
everything.
All over. Makes love to Edison's
delicious
portable intensifier: a ray gun that
shoots
plaque. There's an annoying pause as he exits
his
flip-flops. And sound. Wind-up dispersal.
Why
must disintegration be so manifold?
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