rubber mountains pocked with
oily pools of real swamp grass
and dancing naked electric dolls,
paths traced through resistant air
by sinewy lightning, floating mounds
of machine dung, the kissing of
spray painted nuclear warheads.
Symmetries broken by a smiling baby,
tall audio speakers thrumming
with demonic joy. Lice of the red forest
that thrives, fangs of molten light lucky
to decorate the sensitivities
of rising antennas.
Tinfoil sheep on a wolf's fur hillside,
dead eyes tracking
what the living cannot see
waves lapping what has ceased to be.
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