The Last X-Rated Theatre on Venus
There are three places left where
you can still get a lungful:
the food court, mostly deserted;
the United Venusian Embassies, very
much not; and the last X-rated theatre
on Venus, where the recycled air
is treated with peppermint oil
but still faintly smells of an
overworked rubber fan belt.
We tried to accommodate the locals
even though they never wanted us to.
We were too busy pseudo-terraforming
the neighbourhood to ask, with our synthetic
gas that smells like the inside of a
perfume factory on fire.
The nose is an erogenous zone, sure,
but it's hard to be good to be hard
when it's hard to just breathe.
Who is this for? What is this in service of?
To my naked eye Venusian pornos
look procedurally generated,
long loops of dancing geometric shapes
and soft circuit board melodies,
colourful mobiles in a sea of tracking lines.
I close my eyes and let it wash
over me like lost home video footage of
tiny lake waves on a windy day.
