Nuclear Winter

Mince looms, seeping through desiccated stone – flower arrangements dragged by a sex offender from a soft pile of cavities, crippled by the funeral director's phallic doodles, scattered in the freezer's angry inferno for quieter splashback in the Tupperware wind. A black hole neatly cracks the orb of light into hideous flakes – thrumming basement offshoots, yellow teeth in masking tape, alien, revolting, peach. Semen derived from the brain's helicopter pulse. Lint curling waxy in a giant ear trumpet until stagnant, ingrained like a scream in memory. The first of the Goonies to be comforted by a horse and the true smell of Mars beside their deathbed – an increase in delicious smog funneled through a sock. By science – the premature cesspools in its particle accelerators. By the tiny fossils of a bird's intelligence, like meaningless crosswords. By the artificial banana scales of nuclear winter.