Starfling me, wring me a backlash pack,
a rat far from the farflung star slums
that stuff thick molasses in the weekend gym.
We can’t emphasize enough how wrong
the slongarm buff with the rough mustache
was, his coattail a cow tail from a snuff lip
showcase. Snow in a blow safe is symbolism
if you will it to ignite the Starlight Diner
with some frozen ice, the kind of flames
that killed the Terminator the second time.
He blew up like stirrups lined with dynamite
before ultimately melting in slow motion,
screaming greetings for the pain
he shouldn’t have felt from a boiler room melt.
I can only offer you my belt collection
that smells of snake skin leather. I am a collector
of elastic cheat codes that honor venom
and bare bellies, an ever expanding cavity
that takes up most of my host duties with danger.
If it pleases the court, we ask intact that you
resort to haunted houses built for corpses
only this maze chain holiday season can ignore.
The pumpkin dump trucks scoop up the sludge
to take to the orange landfill they call the Marriott Crow.
Benjamin Niespodziany is a night librarian at the University of Chicago. He runs the multimedia art blog [neonpajamas] and has had work published in Ghost City Press, HOOT review, Pithead Chapel (forthcoming), formercactus, and a small batch of others.