This is my kind of poetry…, short, weird, sci-fi-ish, bizarro, funny and the word choice is almost always spot on even if I have no idea what he’s trying to say…
Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of
a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and
mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,
rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.
A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described
as steeped in cum-tarnish the next time he points that
thing at a dog’s rubber chew toy.
After a very poor display of ‘impulse containment,’
the tricorder finally ‘recognizes’ the wig.
Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew
hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,
the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of
miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.