A Bud Light

A blossoming. Sunflower efflorescence
of late capital, rare metal shot up for
the shit of it. What you illuminate: nuclear
states, of which this flat flat is one: “after.”
Protestors visible in the rearview, mirror
to your stick and sticky tape approach. No
desert as deserted as the one you deserve/
disseverated. Kiss my fission, I’m saguaro
decolonising your honchorific horizon. Honor
this, in all its carcinogenic. Muta- or. Forms
are not for filling, filing, punching holes in: bodies
grains foliate oceanic. Your bomb’s an atomic
burp (…dealt it, bud); in my dilatory temporality,
even your nukular aluminum erodes. So over it.