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Vulcan Erotica // Tyson Bley

July 4, 2013

       

 

————

Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of

 

a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and

 

mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,

 

rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.

 

A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described

 

as steeped in cum-tarnish the next time he points that

 

thing at a dog’s rubber chew toy.

 

 

 

After a very poor display of ‘impulse containment,’

 

the tricorder finally ‘recognizes’ the wig.

 

 

 

Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew

 

hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,

 

the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of

 

miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.

 

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