fake death

I faked my death with a gun. The bullet,

a stray unidentified blood-object

smarmed by the hangovers of reality.

My vanity basically brandished a faux-

penis head and imagined it to transcend

peaceful sci-fi, a family-friendly outer

space. For outside of Utopia, Crypto-

Seabiscuit was an elaborate hoax.

As in an intolerable dream, with

nocturnal vision embedded in white

eyes, with hidden meanings snuck

into bodily functions to be further

masked by them, the walkie-talkie, after

I pulled it out of the cop's ass, was

crispy, open at the top, revolving ... A

disoriented voice was in its opaque,

plastic, square, walkie-talkie embrace.

Before long, the parking lot around the

NSA evolved into an omniscient cement

pillow that from Earth looked like an

elongated tear in the moon. Scissors

reduced the milky fountain of a pillow

fight to sawed-off. A hole this teethy can

be patched with a crossover between the

menstrual mascara of Catholicism and

the cosmetic rubber of an Iron Curtain. 

bionic luddite

HAL is just a computer in a moldering wall,

a sick marshmallow tit, quirky ambulant proudflesh

thwarting an old mattress. Unclogging HAL's yolk,

the plunger twitches; a space-nerve vacuuming the

margarine soul of a sore slain in a form of birth control

that separates by picking bare. It's just the way we

humans will prevail over the machines: our

breathtaking bacon pollutes with its bloody trajectory.

HAL's treacly entrails' frowning dump. Our bucktoothed

composite spine teabagging the symbolic insect,

turning tricks in a commercial rather than a slasher.

Underground human augmented with soap on a rope,

holding a greenhouse loftily atop the cataclysm's

foundation, painted saved, retouched with

ChapStick against the painful, desiccant rinse

of space. Until pimp clot goes bump. 

beer dance

I smoke with a lung, a drying organ

that used to like sticking everything

in its mouth.

My mail-order bride's 3-cylinder skeleton

made a noise in the gathering dusk

when she did the beer dance.

Planets seem no longer to be clocks

made out of plants jacked into

a futuristic modem;

the information sent out on helium wheels

and arriving in slime socks.

Their weathers are still mechanical

but twisted spurious, as are their

people, infected with nanobots/

wrapped in a caldera of fornicating

cockroaches – metal carapaces up

close, vampire dust from afar –

for when sparks spark sparks

and the universe's genitals are

hot and heavy, a shambling,

self-replicating drone army

shall emerge vivid to the naked eye

as wine hacked from jelly.

This disease's negative space used

to have the angular jawline of

a homosexual angel but now

sports Velociraptor shank in its angles,

and constantly needs one pain
to alleviate another.

vulcan erotica

Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of

a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and

mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,

rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.

A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described

as steeped in cum tarnish the next time he points that

thing at a dog's rubber chew toy.

After a very poor display of 'impulse containment,'

the tricorder finally 'recognizes' the wig.

Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew

hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,

the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of

miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.

necessary evil

joy without a head, the steam of rat seizures

farted by a rainbow's dying,

moaning and pushing the transmission along zomboid

stem-connections

Mad Cow street cred oozing

from the cannibalistic crawl's outstretched

skull-blood...

wielded by anyone other than

the lab workers, the can opener

becomes a jawbreaker

now the sleeping blowfish-in-a-can umbrellas;

a cloud of self-replicating mosaic

awakened by robot minds,

suspended animation's unholy

fried chicken cortex

palmed off by the evil genius as

a necessary evil of self-preservation

“here you have the jaw's basic toilet lid motor function;

and here, in the crack of its butt-chin, the semen of an artichoke”

square asshole

Most of the aftereffects of dumping furries all

over my face are being washed down by the computer's

square asshole in a dazzling instance of something transported

by a smear, of wearing as a form of eating. Ride-ripples like lead from

prolonged contact with the haunted house's undercurrent

of anthropological bone. Released by the fart of an inflatable

Ninja Turtle, the gelatinous ghost feels misplaced, with

symptoms of delirium tantamount to gibbering behind its

fartbubble wallpaper.

Hemorrhoid ointments intermix, ushering in a Raiders of the Lost Ark

glow in the dark. Lacing the alien cripple with an

“instrument panel green”. Google dye-encrusted brains “stand out.”

A harmful preservative at the root of the living dead's bicep

created an obscenity.

marijuana tongue

Glossing over long pants

the digital death sop-up

re-hung radiation.

The flatulating penis hole hates.

A miserable spiraling half metal sundae/

proceeds to sop up/a dead man's Lysol

like a half random old tumbleweed

crusher.

Jarring scum sucking/squished sleep of the

virus whose gills sound like a wet blanket,

a sandbox's slithering hourly leakage –

From above, the wreckage looks like a miracle.

From the side: the incapacitated doughnut

looks obscene/while regular shrieks keep

collapsing in the doughnut's/throat/

humanoid alien bodies tessellate its

black marijuana tongue

the sounds of leprosy mutating

and/or folding from within/

and/or scooting along

the subtle rearrangement of pus/

via explosions in dreams/along a limbo

molded by the tenuous/grasp of a ghoul

playing with its/own/puke/////////*/