I am rubbing one out on the horny techno body of the poem. In the middle
of the crime pageant. This is gross retail.

Everyone wants to engage in fancy looking. Yr eyes erupt into horns & u
gore the language matrix. To cheerily participate in wound culture. This is
what it means to write a poem.

The poem documents yr howling. When u became one of the “illegally
disappeared.” Yr fey squirting & other infantile abysmia.

A poem is a see-through membrane. A site of peculiar witchy media & yr
eventual collapse. Rabbity bodies mid-flinch. An anti-body on a ferral
mission. Hello. Hello. All u muffdivers & cockgobblers.

Poems are a trilling necrofantasia. Even above ground. Even in weak-eyed
heaven.