fucking poem title

My body, an alchemical machine that turns 
air into life, 
food into skin cells, 
water into piss.

It’s self-humiliating lungs inflate a dangling layabout
and it's the sad scenes in animated comedies off a webrip jet plane
firing heat-seeking FOX-2 
FOX-2 wildfire

whenever it tries to talk about itself

Talk about “trying to cheer up at the end of the day”, and 
“at the end of the day, I just need a break.”

Ease into it, in what I believe is a situation with no gain, zero sum.
Remember something, that what you are losing with your breath in the mirror--
“A result of progress,” as someone in a bicep-crumpled suit would say.