all I want is nothing. some part of me
lost my “vital essence.” I was probably
fucking around with too much ketamine
and too big a body of water and dropped
it beneath the mildewy mat in my tub.
no, all I want is a high-protein meal, some
adhesive remover, and the guarantee
that I’ll pick up a mild form of AI psychosis
without any of the bad stuff. I need money,
and in this starry world, it’s not for the promise
of life and subsistence. it’s purely for chintzy,
plastic, neon green, psychosexual vanity.
I want it to have it because that means
I can spend a lifetime unburying flat stones
in search of an unnamed bug in the muck
with fairy powers, and perhaps it has
a mean disposition, one that looks heroic
to outsiders, but isn’t actually too much
for me to handle. (that would be scary,
and I would feel guilt, which is a thing that
frankly, I might be able to ignore forever,
so long as I can help it. so it’s not real.)
I want an embarrassing amount of money
so I can forget my entire life, kill everyone,
abdicate my responsibility, and be whisked away
into a more promising pit of vipers than my own.
I want a fever dream made warmer still,
my brain fried inside my skull, my tongue
in a lightsocket, my entire body swelled
double or triple in size, and everyone applauding.