Wedge of compressed smog,
a muscled cloud-arrow fitted
with sirens in place of a head;
that tattered no-note pitched
at pure dissonance. Evolution
pissed off. Right leg lost
at the knee, chewed, a dead-root nub,
but bored numb at that, unmoved.
The short straw drawn and
shirked off. Matted ruff of scum
from the throat to an anus
that can’t quit. Spits in derision
at an ungiving gutter. From the side
of its head spots one nugget of gunk
aswim in a puddle’s blue oil and pistons
a hinged clamp to swallow it whole
then swivels its vision —
that core-sample of coal —
to find itself in a fun house, fifty
different versions of need to compete with.