Neon-yellow I walk, a balloon animal filled with disgusted Jell-o, into the kind of room I, immediately squeaking, wish I hadn’t. They all bird me, till quivering I break shape and wind of already broken bone and bust like blushing flesh over the hardwood corset of the floor. Curving their beaks, so to speak, they collect, carefully careless, my scraps into plastic greetings sticky with the greasy rubber of their too-handled and muggingly caffeinated opinions. Then I see myself wirelessly wired and puppeted into a cloud, a gray glaucoma, screened like a film over the high-branched projecting nests of their bosomingly-blossoming vexingly convexing eyes.
Where will I go now? Into what skinned mirror treasured in a judgmental chest find peace & all the rest?
Artificially nervous, I can’t think without some twisted artifice to twine my animal around, snug as a veined snail in the quilted-vine hell of his familial trust-trussed shell. It’s not that I wish I hadn’t come here—here to this dorky party of Twister, fashionably dainty cakes and even daintier handshakes, here to this dorky party of Twister to get all bent out of shape—but that I wish I could mold myself to myself, and cover myself, spreading like
an adaptably viral rug, parasitically uncritical, all over,
till from humble pseudo-fungal beginnings,
I become the shower curtain I grew on,
the moldy black curtain of the curtain
which can never be withdrawn
to screen the clean staging of being alone—
me the video nasty everyone, seemingly English, already owns.