An
ambulance out of nothing – out of hollow whale chained to crisp
parking lot –
with a side
of Steve Jobs's head in a bear trap, less an electron than
a regular
plugin. Pug flesh combed by its soothing atom.
A homeless
man sleeps beneath this monument to youth –
a mashup of
regular flesh and bones – talking, talking; the IKEA stick a cop
beat him
with gave him a sex change. A spreadsheet of this still languishes there
as
a memorial
of the time the robot bourgeoisie, wrapped in futuristic jaundice, began
to
understand
Marty McFly, who in a manly voice insisted: “Instead Skeletor –
though
homosexual – should be TIME's most biological person of the year.”
Commercials
spread thin behind 3D glasses on a troll's nose.
“Progressively,”
Walmart sexualizes the crooked spectrum with the zen of fermentation,
branding
itself pro life, arming celebrity holograms with learning devices
to fight
like regular babe magnets; their ghosts spit in the sand.
Nobody
cares.
No comments:
Post a Comment