The Cactus Band hunt ghosts.
They fix ventilation systems.
Sometimes they wash each other’s feet.
And caress LCD screens, whisking soap for days.
Until a ship full of turkeys gets wrecked on the shore.
And a printer asks you to flex your enormous muscles.
Sometimes they find themselves at the shallowest end of funk rock.
But they’ve never had any ideas.
They think it’s weird being watched.
And their bodies prickle when they play.
When you think something’s about to happen, it doesn’t.
And then suddenly something does, like a pack of adorable puppies hunting you down in the forest.
