So were sweating like a Maine coon cat in July, like a fat man sipping soup, like Joan Rivers melting face. Because he said anorexia nervosa is the luxury of the leisure class. We enter a bay made from plastic and spastic turquoise paint. Dear intellectuals: you need not apply for the position of Rasputin’s chicken. You belong on Hollywood Squares- totally L7, Clark Kent glasses glazed by secretions of laptop malaise. What fun this is to see you nearly naked on the boob-tube. Oh uranium in birdbones, drizzle weaving the names of lovers who salivated feasting on blue heron backbones muted and bulbous typhoon of carbonation. Let us hibernate in quantum flare space with Chili and Gribble, acid-etched photons in the ocean floating feral ammonia kisses on the earlobe scar, the blizzard of wishes bending mirrors of the funhouse flesh. Oh lingerie pillow fight party in my kidney-shaped pool full of gin. Oh blasphemous modern dancer with androgynous haircut, your nervy fortune telling is a ticket to the Museum of Modern Failure. The bird they were going to eat stands up straight, adjust her kaleidoscope and pops like a bubble with your new lover’s name on it. Sunflower flamingo, oh octopus oracle, outlaw of the sensorium, please be my gift horse in the mouth.