I throw off my ozone like a thong
after a long day. Clouds part
like pursed lips deflating in defeat as I spread-eagle
on my pastoral couch, straddle the grassy hills
of cushions, and comb through a cornucopia of pixeled
portraits. People are painted in frayed camo and faux
fur to impress me, posing with fat cats
that will eat them when they die, splaying turkey
tails like thick fans of cash, unhinging their snake
jaws to eat bacon-stacked burgers, deer draped
over their shoulders like rigor
mortis mantles, antlers toothpick-raked
between teeth. All my tectonic plates shift
like fidgety thighs on a shitty date
and I am mystified as to why this rises
people’s pelvic tides, why I’m getting all hot
and bothered, why they keep sucking me dry.