Imagine (all the people)

The couple to my left
are wrestling the scrawny arm
of a ‘That’s Life’ crossword
into some kind of submission.

Some jerk kid’s knee
is fisting the back of my seat.

Out the window,
the dead suburban tumours
metastasising on the spine of the highway
grow thicker
and I imagine dropping
chemotherapeutic bombs.

The fire flowers that bloom below
are some kind of perfection.

In my writhing spine,
there is some kind of detonation.

Air travel brings out some kind of fascist in me.

And I hate bunnies too.

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