Cleopatra's Boom, as worn as earth as economy, salivating stone-head medusas turning Hercules to stone mending torn shirt-sleeves as it's posterity's sign of decay when nostalgia melts like an old bucket of icecream, not empty—but gooey sticky sugar-salt in mist of phosphene glare from a quarter of the deserts heat. You can see 64% of the picture. The other 36% is forever lost in the splattered blindspot dots of your diamond optical nerves, an eternal mismatch eternity—the parts you won't notice when your stomach aches after three consecutive cigarettes for breakfast. **Cleopatra's Boom, belittled like oceans, always so alien tho it makes up 71% of our global entirety—thoughts find external storage on disc drives, in water—there's a mouth out there with a saltier kiss than the Pacific, one that caws like seagulls in exodus, announcing to the Peace Arch: “I American. I need a greater space to spread my legs.”
