The bed is playing itself like an outraged juke-box
Full of Johnny Cash being rubbed up against silent headaches
Guns N’ Roses swallowing an infinite spearmint hotdog
That pools on the floor of telepathic cubicles

The bed detonates like a Rubik cube in a ten-year-old
Geek’s mind. All our chickens will be headless
All our sheets will be running through the market
Proving that we were virgins, again and again

And the aunts will cluck and consider our gallons,
Whether or not we bled enough for decency’s sake
Spermicide pools in the cerebral cortex
Deep deposits of dust that sneeze off vinyl memories

And the streamers, pink and blue, and the hairpiece
Of algae and the jack-in-the-box unjacked
And the phone line in which the cubicle is imagined
And the sneeze and the cortex and the decency’s lost leg