Polite Apocalypse

neon-toast // ceiling—chew the clock; spit the sun? pixel-moth hiccups in the bathtub—hum: un-done, un—done, say the word backwards (slow) until the city forgets your name—no name, barcode moon blinks; a paper smile peels off like postage— we trade shadows for polite conspiracies; laugh—ringtone stuck, tiny algorithms nesting in the ribcage; feed them crumbs, feed them likes… vending-machine heart: dispenses rain, old promises, one-cent flags; cat with a passport yawns stamps into the air—tiny lies fall like confetti, memes crawl wallpaper—learn to harmonize, then forget the chorus, I swallowed a subway map; now I dream in transfer-codes // transfer—codes, elevator sings Morse; doors open on a joke that never lands, someone sells you yesterday’s echo; you buy it with a smile and a receipt. neon-toast // ceiling—chew the clock; spit the sun—glitch, pixel-moth hiccups in the bathtub; hums split into QR-flowers, say the word backwards (faster) until the city coughs up your name—again, barcode moon peels; paper smile becomes a ticket—valid for one exit, we trade shadows for polite conspiracies; laugh—ringtone fractures, algorithms in the ribcage learn to whistle; they whistle your password. glass-teeth horizon chews the last of yesterday; postcard: PLEASE DO NOT DELAY, tongues planted in the garden where analogs go thin—thin as paper, thin as rumor, a rumor folds into a hat; hat walks away with wind—no return policy, world rewrites footnotes in crumbs; commas become currency, semicolons—gold, tiny god forgets counting; drums count themselves; the beat uploads, downloads, and somewhere a vending-machine coughs up a small, polite apocalypse.