In
a haunted painting on the side of a bus, Jaws III smirks
big
Coca-Cola letters that follow you. As if to uproot weeds
from
a treasure map, a postprandial tongue elbows shark molars.
Shark
eyes follow, too, watery – i.e. subterranean windshield shavings
spill
from twirling optic parasols onto the dashboard's rape van
loinleather.
Eyes fed and still connected by hunger-tubes to Santa's brain
(a
machine which nuzzles what it thinks about). Serial killer physics
dribble
from a boiling clock onto the titular shark's antlers,
like
Satan's tweets disappearing in pizza, mimicking subconscious
slowburn.
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