Thin wire forms, blasted apart by grinding horns, bit by bit, byte by byte. Progressive precision, torrentially assertive. Creeping, lifting, happily engineering the most uncomfortable connections. An icon besmirched, scandalized, immortalized in latex.
Traveling o’er rooftops systematically merging with motorcycles, engines gunning, he dances a jig. The gossiping, whispering tell-tale signs of hens, clucking and strutting their awkwardness, grudgingly relenting to an unwelcome touch on the shoulder.
The bleating of farm animals and heady stink of the barnyard, you can’t drive it away with simple clamps wearing gloves. Brushed by industrial transmission, rocketed to heights hoisted heavily Heavenward.
He dies.
Cautious Realism 