Pink Slime

I am not what they tell you.
Captain Kirk in waves,
 in gas pop of pink
lavatory gladness—garbage king
Vulcanizing dentures.
Tiny starfish sunglasses
Sucked my eyeballs out.

Lamb meat.
Captain Kirk lamb mold.

My heart pumps
Red slime, red night,
the bees are working in
the black room;
I also have other colors.

Sometimes in the mirror, I say,
You are slime. I like slime.

Pink slime came out after the
Regular green slime, and it came
In a pink garbage can.
I don’t think there was any beef in it.

I’m a long way from natural anymore,
But naturalism has found a new home
In the techno narrative. Slime molds
Are pretty with certain cameras.

Emile Zola would have a hot cup of bouillon
Every evening before bed, and let’s face it,
Vulcan women look hot, and they aren’t elves,
Though elves do seem to be a lot more cold
And logical than regular characters. Even elf men
Look tough but femmy.

There is a logic behind pink slime, and the sad thing is,
That the Nazca Indians were forced by aliens to make those lines,
They are sort of like an alien hobo language saying,
Weird monkey biohazard, beware of trippy grumpy slime.

Last night I dreamed a cow
Was talking on a hamburger cellphone
To Grace Jones wearing Vulcan elf ears.

No news is nonsense sucked from
pink wink eye teats in
the cloven club foot streets,

see it:

the shrill hand of talk
buttons the cobra’s eyes
shut, fang buttons,
sanguine sneeze folk smoke...

(pink slime)