Eat me,
declare sky-high freeway hoardings, before my dish runs away with the spoon,
and clogging stops the arteries. Sail to Cathay, say thousands of hand screens
that tap and expand at the will of a chip, buried in circuitry minute as insect
wings. Wear my extinction, blasts arcade speakers, special May sale or while
stock lasts, the colours fading to Arctic. Buy the lie, twitters the flash in
the pan of electrical exhaustion. Read the fine print, warns the neat A-frame,
chained to a tree on the street where you live, about to blow over in a 100-kmh
gale.
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