Star-stuck, buckling in his shine,
clenched in the shell of his small
and deceptive powers:
that poor old beast, his chrome dips,
the slightest shiver runs him through.
Tumbling waters bulb from the rafters,
screens cruise without feet
and eat up unguarded zones.
Plant life burrows into the facial features.
Stones speak to lemons, vitamins
butterflies and small quail.
Structures teem with bubbling felt
and whining fire escapes
jutting from melted bricks
like frayed beard hairs.
Gardens erupt with salt icebergs.
The peaks rip turf and flow with books
of a fatal record.
A forest eats his stare
and translates this killer
into the mainstream.
The wreck he was after
climbs the heap to make
a powder of his skull.