Here's a thing that exists
And you can't even begin to guess how to use it
A squadron of Iridescent Ben Day Dots
Hovering
Constant shifts to avoid your fingers'
Pudgy clutches
I'm hiding
So far UP inside a
concrete pour of majestic crystal clamorings
On the shoulders of ever compacted minor points
To meet an exit
Marked by the polar star.
The True Goal
To insert my fingers into every moistened life -
Well packaged characters
Shoveled into the cake hole
Beneath my sternum
An island is an accident
By all means
Shame it's slut pride
Protrusion
And steer clear from it's demented
Wildlife