A pap ferments in the heart's seed
and pumps nectar through the flesh,
the pulp swells and bursts its seams,
the egg's too drunk on sugar to be.
Being is inconsequential, is contra code:
What's needed here is pulse without purpose,
nurture without nature, present without future,
hybrids spawning perfect hybrids —
The branch can't even hold its fruit any more
and so inclines to quickly cut it loose —
Everything's on credit, even hunger's borrowed
on hunger's collateral from illusory want.
See that plump and pregnant specimen,
sweating succulently under the glow lamp,
it's so whacked-out on injected buzz,
it doesn't know whether it's an apple or an eidolon.