Infiltrating the One Account

Every time I fire a sucker dart
at your work email fortress,
I discover newborn profanities,
alien to film censors,
when it whangs back my daytime hello,
unread, like a moth
biffed by a shuffling testudo.

Words like spi.cy
must be bisected,
like file-injected cakes,
with full stops, or the next least
visually intru.sive symbol.
Spi.cy? Has there been
a recent spate of curry po.rn,
the girls drenc.hed
in masala
like se.xy swamp monsters
or Shakira?

Return to sender
sniffs some robot in the city.
We must save our vir.gin workers' eyes
from the ev.ils of Explorer.

God forbid I ever
need to rush a warning
into your inb.ox.
Zom.bies could hijack
the postal service,
wolf.men rampage
on a cord-cutting spree,
screa.ming call operators
wri.the in the mitts
of giant apes
up the telephone tower
and a hefty kick strike down my door
while I'm treble-checking
I've not put three kis.ses
after your name.