A crapshoot conspiracy ascends
through the floorboards with the intent
of establishing a colony of hypodermic
spores. Now I’m in a fix,
and there’s no easy way out. Not unless
I can somehow find a way to calibrate
an anasthetic to the vibrations
of an expatriate satellite. Well,
technology was never really my bag.
Three meditations on piracy
and a six figure salary later,
I find out that I’m now unfortunately
the object of the crosshair’s infatuation.
These situations call for a delicate
sort of finesse, and at the expense of
autosuggestion, I opt
for a copyright inquisition.
Then, like a switchblade drunk
on retribution, I take to the corridors
with a handmade bottle rocket
and forcing through the contusions,
drive a flame to the fuse.