Recording this curdles the wild machine man’s insides.
Robocop car sick, stone cold simmering rainbow
mud, time’s shards’ bereavement smell
folding a unique, disrespectful computer hue
along the alley where the neuron once went bowling.
It is now an archeological site. Only phantom memories,
weird, nasally funereal, pretty-woman sounds go
dancing here. Dead bodies’ friendly recoil.
Fright night. Texas Chainsaw Massacre at one with
the saxophone of pure evil.
Surroundings contoured with Leatherface’s brow ridge.
Writhing covering an electro prod’s
fang tension, tucked under the ripped-off face,
wet basketball jersey soaking up the feel
like a zombie’s mustache.
Insects scooping out the petri dish.
Slayer comprising the nerd’s every subconscious