Cloying

There are 8-12 planets percolating in my belly
and my mouth is a small glossy square barb-
wired shut. I go out to dinner, nod puppetly.
Sit with my hands folded prettily under a chain
of prismy scales.

The head of a major cloud formation picks
clownfish corpse off of my plate. He offers me
while polka dots sealed into blue glass atmosphere.
If I’ll only just smile big carnival with flashing
buzz for him.

Something with tiny claws taps on the backs
of my canines. I need to get myself one of those
viable exit strategies. I need to get myself one
of those trap door bellybuttons for easy live
purge action.