Insecticide #31

Physicists say there’s no light coming from
the film roll in my back room;
even on disk,
they refer me to the pilot light for spiritual guidance.

My claim is the escalator motif,
jimmying down the locksmith’s certain death
fragmentary space pod edict anthropomorphic skein.

Shallow breaths,

Egocentric lapdog inspiring
me to cultivate my faith without
her inebriating parapsychology.

Egocentric maniac hospitalization
cornered two-tier wedding cake explosives,
vibrating with the Sound of Music,
so we can all ejaculate in one hypothetical
group orgy as we unravel all the synergies;

Placebo bun retina,

Curtain call,
where are you?
Come out, come out,
wherever you are.

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