THE LOVE SONG OF J. ACER TRAVELMATE
Come. Dressed for a honeymoon. Like a mango
sculpted to a blossom, impaled. Learn to tango
because it’s a damn good investment. Be strong
as a rubber. For you, every lover will be wrong.
Don the hubris of a blonde. Cavort like a brunette.
Anticipate the Russian in the spin of chat roulette.
Accept ennui, Bleu Nuit, double Texas hold ‘em.
Give in absolutely to the carpal tunnel syndrome.
Because insomnia isn’t just a marketing strategy.
Buy the decaffeinated bottle of Five-hour Energy.
Forget cyborg, sybian, Berkley Horse and Trojan.
Because one curiously clumsy click hurts no one.
In every phallic object, the symbol is clear-cut:
silicone conifer, hairy hardwood, leather chestnut.
Crave this apotheosis of a plastic prosthesis.
Because. Because. Because. Because. Because.
Because of the wonderful things it does. Follow
the email migration of the chain mail manifesto.
Be a Pay Pal. Pop your Paxil. Spatter melted candle.
Train your brain to feel nerve endings in a pixel.
Stretch your skin on webcam. Be an austere host.
Because you are bound by the mouse to the bedpost.
By Daniel Renton, from Milk Teeth (Frog Hollow Press, 2016)