Monday, May 31, 2010

It Was Cone-Shaped With The Hair Of A Hobbit But It Was Dangerous And Don't Think Otherwise

The hurricane was nothing. Though it issued
flawless consonants like adult diaper farts
it still was nothing, nothing to be concerned
or vexed over for in it swirled eighties music
and those ‘other’ sounds you heard, those
were the leafs of a pulp science-fiction novel turned
by the hurricane’s bored libido. Could this thing be
any more of a loser? We saw it settle at the
Formica table of a fast-food joint, on the
squeaky plastic-upholstered bench
and it complained about the helicopters flying around it
trying to take its pulse and inject it
with tranquilizers. It reared up momentarily – frightening
us – and called itself a magician. Then realized how
dumb that sounded. It was clearly ashamed of
spraying feces all over the helicopters until they – propellers
irrevocably jammed – went away, admitting that magicians
probably never did that. There had been much
fear in its suspicion that they wanted to rip
its heart out and there was wimpy capitulation
in its retreat to the edge of the lake, after the shit-throwing
fiasco, to engage in a private, tranquil rock-flipping
marathon. All by itself. Using raisins. Us. Which was how
we all looked to it from its head-height –
and need I remind you that this pathetic,
cone-headed soul made of dust and the hormones
of prison escapes sitting on that plastic
bench before that sad, sad junk meal
considered sitting and staring about the room
like a swirly-haired hobbit a joyride? If hereabouts you
let your guard down, consider how to it we
still looked like raisins. Fucking raisins, man.
Think about it.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Between The Moo And The Heart

a smashed look back
my tricycle lying in juice
my urine is competitive
i remember what an egomaniac my urine was
in this splinter reflection in this park and recreation
my mom took the umbilical cord made a lasso from it swung it
around a few times and lassoed a lamp post
the lamp posts rise up with their helium balloon heads
the lampposts will ask for Earl Grey in the morning
in the evening they will predict the zombies waking me
in the morning and there’s a coffee spot on my trousers
there’s Velcro on my chest to which the wasteland sticks
i carry it around
i look back
i smile at the TV family sitting on my Velcro
my wasteland on Hollywood beach chairs their toes curling
in the juice that i bled when i fell and douched
all over the dreadful dress i was wearing
rise up Earl Grey
it’s your turn to get up early
and milk the cows with their watery pepper-sprayed eyes looking at me
i’m a cheap boob reference
i will tell them i’m a mash-up between
the heart and the moo
they’ll let me tattoo them on my forehead
with horns i’ll ram backward into your car you shit you bumped me
now i can’t think backwards without crying over my tricycle
it had such great handlebars
i could paddle without looking
i could eat a burger
while paddling i wish we all could do that

Tuesday, May 25, 2010


I secretly went to heaven I didn't want
to make a big deal out of it. Halfway there
I saw the sizzle of three atoms dropped
on meat, senses confusing the barfroom’s
gutter drizzle and the dialogue's decadent
velour design in the flashing sweating dark.
I don't want to talk about the stuff I've
seen, which is a little like the ability to
control consumption so you can stay fit
to join the beast’s jig in white space.
Dying, I was as good as frozen-away holy
water thrown up on the blowout I was with
the cove’s insomniac when she found that
terrible parade in a cracker. I was also
there when she found the webby transistor
outside the nightclub under the rainsoaked
homeless man's webby cardboard - a warning to
users of wide-awake immortality that's definitely
going to keep you wide awake keep the wave
going in the temporal barfroom! Growing up,
I wanted to be a nurse laid to rest forever
amid rotting foliage; when I was older,
I wanted to be a nurse who got laid
by road signs as my rite of passage
in the uncanny valley, madman howl
cave reverberation distant dinosaur
screech in dark play, ritual mimicking
death sacrifice, three atoms three atoms de-
generate degenerate is officially dead
meat. The earth’s manic ability to control
the scary massacre with a hydrated breast
which captures breath a zealot
padded and primitive. Man ablaze
with dance movements uncanny,
my man wearing a funny waistcoat
blowout man snow bowl of cuntsumption

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Boots Standing In Nothing

He used to be friendly to fish, walked around
with a cheekful of them, never swallowed, no sir – just
promenaded around supermarkets and
other hostile places with them in his mouth, a fan of
What Does Not Exist captured on the large Polaroid,
captured like a cave with a tail grabbed
by the tail – dragged into their
sweet midst because you know,

they had roots here, and they were friendly
to him right here, and didn’t judge what
he chose to let flop around and stink (internally, against them)
in his mouth, did they??? Showed him the ropes, oh
the ropes of his choice they were
not picky, showed him why he liked his life
before and why he didn’t like it now: was it because
everyone could smell his fish?
So why so ashamed of them now? Lips
sealed, seal your roots in polythene wrap
then squeeze them into rubber boots; now wade
into my Polaroid

leaning up against a tree large as life, on that field trip
caught and pinned down, thrust
a pill size of the tailed cave’s
living nothing into his beating heart.
They laughed but stood back unsure, ‘now you
have dominance over what you remember
now what???’ Unveiled, a face ripped off, replaced
with manure but though crude, it’s actually a fancy
revolving door letting out
and keeping in the oddities, tail thrashing,
the colorless fear-ribbon twirling in the underbrush, 
your soul a nursing home feeding like
Alien on your best field trip memory
but it was shit anyway but you had
fun anyway if only you had clean clothes.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

A Bevy Of Bats

The insurrection was a kind of shelter to us, a familiar face
afflicted by the news that everybody got married yesterday.

Every action was so well choreographed within the ash
of the nebula – itself sprung like a fat dusty teabag.
Ignoring the drunk fireflies (those wannabe beacons) 

we were instead shown home through the smog via our bat-smart
echolocation, the dubious art of sending a blip and waiting
for it to bounce back,

slack-jawed, blood cells dripping on the black
dissuasive welcome mat but we’re home and

we’d successfully permitted the nebula into the mass dissatisfied.
The most influential among us earmarked a Soviet tank
for our leader, while the rest just opted for

cheesy high-tech hair, like exploring oil plumes
teased out of their scalps.
Lizard heat mid-vein burnt off the cold water hope

trying to flush down our slow advance to the throat;
all this pollution responded by threatening

to delete our party with a rude swallow. Then everybody just
blacked out. The mass dissatisfied turned into an old concept,

a bungled death; space movements didn’t dissipate
all that ringing of flying creatures in our ears.

Then our second in command got a rather dignified moniker:
‘So, DEAN OF NONSENSE,’ we all cheered, glad for him –

but he wasn’t properly protected by the others, so we said,
‘DEAN OF NONSENSE, pray tell us why you’d barter
the metaphor for the privilege to be televised?’ 

So protect those in your midst who know the first thing
about throwing bright pellets of sound at tin surfaces
lest everyone in our flight path gets a nervous breakdown.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

My Bong Knows The Answers To Questions Asked Only In The Afterlife

My bong tells me that darkness is the abstract form of
the dark, so I ask it,
‘Does that mean other bonuses can be enjoyed in the dark?’
I reach through the blinds instead of waiting for
an answer and my hand feels the night, the cool
touch of the city’s sunglasses lying on the
bedside table, removed, and the rough, sandy sweat
across the city’s nosebridge, unhumped by said
sunglasses. It’s really, really a great city, and it’s also
really, really a great bong.

In life after death, people will keep busy playing Trivia Pursuit, our
days filled with such ‘important’ issues as ‘How much does
a stomach filled with twelve cheeseburgers stacked one
atop the other weigh?’ Does that mean me and my bong
are already dead, or something – or we’re already like, in the
afterlife? Because, you know, I know that answer?

Swamp Thing

I wonder what the creature is doing right now.
Drying its hideous fur (the broom bristles of a taxidermist) on a rock?
‘This method makes your liver hurt, Swamp Thing,
just like the funniest thing you ever
saw caused the lilies to cave in
and they never stopped sleeping all over
your green eyes. And you remember that nasty
kidney infection?

Everyone I know wants to meet the person
who’ll like them forever – but your main relief consists
in bagging the river, tying the bag
with daddy issues and instead
of watching it sink, it dodders there
on the sticky surface and you watch
it watching you: ‘An iceberg.’
Poor analogy, buddy. More like
three heads poking out of a hessian sack – because
your daddy had three heads, and the swamp’s
method of disarmament came with a clever, if dangerous,
twist: the ruling plant life saw that three heads
poking out of a hessian sack and bouncing around
like that was the funniest thing you ever saw…

Friday, May 14, 2010

Survival Guide

Oh nice carjacking stance. I saw it
once in the pool hall, and I hated
the guy, but now considering it
in relation to carjacking – yeah, nice. I’ll
write about it. One day.

Hey nice lapdance maneuver. Wait, what?
Oh I’m not sure I can describe THAT!
Harr - the glowing smile. Perhaps I can draw it
using great blotches of magic marker? You really
have to, though - have long teeth like that? What
color best describes a smile both winning and
forehead? I’ll try the one where you have
to be fainthearted. (Yellow mixed with black.)
How does faintheartedness pay?

No I’m not really in it for the money.
I love banned science. Hahahaha, no no
I’m not a scientist: I write survival guides
for lunatics. Just sort of urban ones – you
don’t actually have to be lost in a park
or stoned out of your mind to benefit from it.
You don’t have to be a hiking boot lover/expert/fetishist
or know the words and phrases most hated
by wild parrots. Just a couple of brain cells
have to scrambled, harr.

Correct. You just have to be crazy.
You’ll be amazed: LOTS of crazy people
need survival. Some bat at moon shadows
with spatulas and big leaves and
hoses and stuff and they’re really
afraid, hurr. Perhaps if I could just teach
them to do it with their elbows up
just so and their knees bent like pingpong
champions it’d be OK.

Perhaps the moon would just hate them
and move on, harr-harr.

Secret Lives Crave Tautology

My personal trainer took off the stylish scarf
that he wore everyday – a trademark really, an item found invariably
in caricatures of him – and revealed a horoscope writer
who had hung himself a thousand times.

Now, this was an impersonation of his fate tackily written
but unavoided. No, it's not farfetched, nor overly insensitive, to say
that removing the scarf and seeing his self-styled horoscope
on his neck – seeing those hang-marks –
was a bad tattoo in retrospect.

How fake would such a personal trainer
need to be to be
so optimistic and
devil-may-care? Horoscope fake, that's how fake.

There's actually no good reason for the ten-minute gaps
in the radio personality's evening shows – apart
from the fact that these spaces are meant
to be filled by some fantastic, ecstasy-fueled verbiage
his dachshund, sitting on his lap, is urged
to blither into the microphone.

Of course its silence is lurid testimony to its muteness.

From the tension he obtained such beautiful half-moon cuticles,
effected somehow with a Donald Duck-handled screwdriver,
but the ends of his chewed fingers
looked like sunset swamps.
The technician on the other side of the glass
became dishabille in a way
that lifting one's head and espying him, or bumping into him
in the corridor, was like getting anthrax in the mail.

In terms of appearance, cold silence or crackling anticipation
does something to one's nipples:
the nipple dome tautology, it's called.
Because that's exactly what it is. A thing atop a thing.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Resurrection Mishaps

Someone has died and it’s seemingly
impossible to resurrect him. See, he’s
sitting in a meditative lotus position in
the chickenshit muck, probably humming like
mysteriously before copping it, humming
through duct tape strapped over his mouth, flies
buzzing around his head, the hummus stench of
the chicken coop in his nostrils. Nostrils
that couldn’t ventilate themselves because of
the duct tape blocking off circulation.
The coop’s hot corrugated tin roof
buckles in the heat above ours heads – and if
to know you were going to die wasn’t
bad enough, you also had to turn into
a hemp cocoon in the process, from the
press of chicken feathers around you, chicken
breath, chicken shit and the sauna griffness of
this truly makeshift-looking dwelling…
Poor bastard was trying to meditate and
resurrect himself in advance, knowing he’d
die and shuddering for an instant – at the
thought of what he’d look like when discovered:
you know how butterflies fold themselves up
in cocoons, you know they’ve been practicing this
for centuries, and you know on
the outside they wouldn’t divulge this
meditative posture, knowing how silly
a mysteriously contemplative cocoon must
look. This was just part of the great
embarrassment, probably, for the corpse-to-be,
and out of human compassion you try to resurrect
him. But a miracle excludes all collapse of life,
and trying to bring this sucker back to life
is a collapse of the miracle itself. If not the whole
goddamn chicken coop. He looks like my great
aunt’s head when she had slathered dye on it.
And smells that way too.

Ego Trip

Hey, don’t you think
your place is a little bit

The walls warp when
you walk alongside
them and malice wheezes
out from every dark little

Don’t you think it’s got
something to do
with the fact that every
carpet at your pad
is SmartEmbossed™ with a personalized

Your feet are creepily
followed by screws twisting
out of the floorboards
even when you pad around softly
on podalic SteamSponge® – each carpet lifts a

little and the dust putters
out of the sides, like
Lazarus sitting upright and coughing;
but these SmartEmbossed™ rugs
are the non-verbal equivalent

of a modern face nailed to
an incredible outfit, and you’ll
develop a dust-allergy one day
that’ll cause you to lose
touch with the ground beneath
your feet.

Rise And Fall Of Pierce Monae

This is the tired account of how Pierce Monae, a bioengineer, tossed
pea bombs at ninja waiters in theme diners.

I said that the account was tired but I didn’t warn about how
it would instantly become quite lugubrious when it detailed Pierce
using bird turd iPhone apps to crap on correspondences he didn’t like.

In the account, we experience a little hiccup of sprightliness – at the point
where the bioengineer places 3-D laser-sintered snotballs
on his girlfriends’ headboards. Oh! God knows we could use the levity.

We will see the man literally transform, and the first hints appear,
strangely, when he surgically attaches bioplastic breastplates
that protect him against the detrimental faux pas of gargling sugar-laced
bacterial mouthwash too loud in the bathrooms of geoengineering
facilities – a testimony, if ever there was one, to the character-molding
influences of friends.

Flippantly, and in a sense mockingly – for every kind act in Pierce’s
skimpy repertory of kind acts carries a faint whiff of mockery, of
condescension – Pierce stars in the account as a man who’d ‘benevolently’
deign to necromancing his neighbor’s hamster out of a
chaos of wet sloppy noodles on the mantelpiece. Ptuh!

Of course the account has so far been nothing but tired, even during
the exciting moments. Even when our subject swills beer containing
nanotechnology that washes his ass and scrubs his armpits and combs
his hair and sweetens his breath – and we can feel ourselves begin
to yawn rudely (if you’re reading/hearing this in the company of
colleagues or loved ones) when Pierce, at night, before bed,
drapes himself in a large mountain insulator, the very same cowl of
mirroring Doritos Tibetans have recently begun to find useful in hiding
crops, llamas and ancient crowdsourcing techniques from the Chinese.

Here, now, is Pierce at his vainest: yawn-inducingly, the account has
Pierce molding his name (i.e. Pierce Monae) in silicon letters
based on Palatino serif, and some of you may next fall into a deep stupor
when he publishes an epic poem about his internal organs
‘plateauing’ in a fashion horribly literal and unaesthetic.

Can there be a distinction between his organs making art and
their acting up in medical terms horribly technical?

Doesn’t matter. This is all such boring shit, I don’t believe any
of you would even be around to witness Pierce marking his own downfall
by stuffing electrodes into his pierced, perforated belly (weird pun here
which the account lazily – tiredly? – fails to account for) in an attempt
to remedy the situation but in consequence turning into a baked potato.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

See-Saws Can Fall Either Way

With baby steps
the prince of the bad word
rescues god’s silence from
the wobbly grime,

Creationism for nerds
avoids physical contact
with that sparkly teat
nestled in seaweed in
the crib,

Shock operator
placing his dick in
a number between
5 and 7,

How Hansel and Gretel Died In My Copy Of ‘Hansel And Gretel’

Imagine instead of a witch’s house Hansel and Gretel
visit a casino. The advice I’d give them is
to listen to the unknown. Because that’s where
their breadcrumbs are falling into. It shouldn’t be
too difficult to understand this concept because there isn’t too
great a distinction between a scary forest
and a casino – especially since said forest has the ingenuity
to yield kitsch houses made of sweets.
So. I’d say to make sure it’s man-made, though mostly it always
is. The unknown may be a little immature, just like the
actuarial science that run gambling houses and tap dopamine
from purple-haired mummies, but it should also
be crumbling, and mostly these houses of fate are…
You need to have something like toothpaste in
your ear to hear it, though – hardened, day-old toothpaste
because it needs to absorb the percussions of this
man-made, immature, crumbling, not too mathematical –
because nobody trusts an overly mathematical – unknown.
The witch-house facilities cough – from all the skinny
aerobics taking place inside – so
do exercise some courtesy before entering; like knocking.
The door draft would blow you away if you’re cocky.
These two children walked into unknown time and
when Hansel looked, his Casio wristwatch was soaked with
the strangest snot: therefore, young man, I’d say to
use toothpaste, because certain brands especially – even
in a day-old state – they’re rather snotty, but
cheap, crusty ones work too. Put it
in your ear, dude, the ear you’re listening to forest-time with…
A very scary chapter in my copy of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ told about
how neither Hansel nor Gretel wore gumboots when walking
into the drenched casino, although their toes felt those percussions
and, man, it was like Pac-Man snapping at the fallen coins, the
dying dead, water like tea embellished
to resemble such liquids only scoundrel foot
masseurs could coax – in this alternate addition of ‘Hansel and
Gretel’ – from podalic pores; and
this was when I remembered all the cars
outside were parallel parked. Oh, misguided
parallel parkers! Haven’t you learned from this dark
lesson in navigation? They died in the end, didn’t
they? In my copy their dumb breadcrumbs
were treats to the House (I call that old, mole-nosed lady ‘the
House’ – no offense to witches everywhere), vaccine-soaked
cotton wool for its fat-starved wanderlust on the trail of the
directionally innocent, scare tactics that attract
like contraceptives attract agoraphobic, sociophobic, stay-at-
home sperm cells. Why couldn’t the witch have bred her
own children in a cauldron or something and eaten them or
something before they were even ready?
Otherwise we wouldn’t have seen something beautiful:
the dumb breadcrumbs turning into a mysterious, unchartered
sea. In my addition there was a craphouse-full of them, so many
and they crackled under the stomping, jingling, slot-machine
soles of the two irresponsible children, who
didn’t hear a thing but eventually – yeah, I think they
eventually just didn’t hear anything.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Tell Your Bodyguard To Back Off, Please

Combat is offered now, but at a bonanza accepting
such a thing can be dodgy. It may be featuring tranquility
instead of cheap splatter. I just know I’d feel very dazed
while contemplating the offer, like I’d been on a still-white,
black-blood diet for a week.

There’s a moment where closing your eyes and walking
on a high rail your out-of-control clothes
crust with rough stabilization: failure happens next
but it isn’t in losing your balance or dropping your
keys from on high on a parked car’s hood, slamming
right through it and creating a lewd, extempore manhole.

Failure lies in forgetting the many lovelorn singles
who during your selfish, ecstatic moment of
amnesia still relied on the Mixtape – each song a
flailing limb, a brick or iron-cast foot that clumsily leans
in the wrong direction and throws off the rest of that
bright weight pointing at what you should be stopped from
wanting but you forgot those – now you leave the fair
with a stupid teddy bear.

Please tell your bodyguard that it’s disruptive as
hell to either hit someone over the head with a cannon,
to modify it so it can look at the spot of concentration poised
on your purchase of all that’s combative and magically beam
a large heavy round object – via magnetic stilts or
with matchsticks’ burning, quickly scissoring legs –
into it; or to use the cannon conventionally.

Tell him, please, because it’s very very disruptive. You know how
long I have to choose to pick this item off the shelf? Exactly
one nanosecond. Then it’s gone. Poof. The passenger saw the
bird on the wing and his throat lost that large parking
space in which only something as tinny and flat
as an airplane meal can park. Some wise people
often wander around bonanzas throwing pebbles at
people but sometimes also pelting them with such over-cooked,
phlegm-dripping nuggets as: ‘Sometimes, you can only choose
between war and choking.’

Ouch! Which is also the unlikely sound – in a dirty toilet – of
bankruptcy. A brooding cannon-drone in a daydream.
Vandalism attracted to lavish reflections of zeros, dreams learning
shaking hands, to erase the vampire, to intricately pick the
splatter from the cross-stitching. Dumbass! Your quest is
for infringement – of what? Of white rule, which is OK; but
also of the humble Indian and of the broken family, which is
ALREADY BROKEN, man. Can’t you see? And this
imperfection is so passive aggressive, just like your
bodyguard—a veritable cannonball of brooding honor
slipped through the trellis of a heart surgery.

Now this is how you make a mug on a prison photo look
self-assured: you make it look like a wedding photo. You’re
not given long to do this. You’re given an eternity insulted
by a small child. It shrinks it nicely. But to make a wedding photo
look self-assured you have to make it look like
a jailbreak. Praise for a penny. It’s that kind of bonanza.
You’re this kind of boy next door. The type who doesn’t
throw pebbles up at windows but instead throws mixtapes
containing singles alternating between death metal and
schlock rock. Petroltank-crushed ’nads. Coldplay.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

A group Of Angry People, Fist-Shaped On The Horizon

Man, we’re miles away from any ketchup and
stop looking at the fishmonger’s
work-worn knuckles and at his
yellow armpits: fish and chips wouldn’t freely
dislocate from all the tough things
this man’s seen.

A fellow drug addict – a good one, one who knows
that fistful of thumbtacks squeezed by his
need, and our need – can help us with our addiction.
Just shut up and listen, okay? This guy comes
highly recommended – because he’s almost
constantly to be seen on a Vespa on

drifts of hooters and
when you switch his supply
chain? Calm as a lake. As unfazed and silly-looking as
a romantic criticized
and getting an asskicking
for his romantic unfashionable beard

but – fazed? Ruffled? Not in the least.
What may stop us from reaching him
is the head of that weather phenomenon
that’s rearing up there yonder, like male pattern
baldness over a dome of glistening, flaky crimson. If you’d
turn to the window on your right and

observe the asthmatic bluster – you’ll
see it. Our treat will be to observe something
on the horizon that looks, basically, like angry people. You
know it’s often counter-intuitive to addictively want,
but Rodriguez is the calmest fucker I know: reaches out
in orgasmic self-help and grabs

one hooter (said hooter thinks
someone else grabbed it. I know,
but you have to be prepared for rejection,
your sojourn in addiction may be a finger in
an asshole and your calmness may spit
in your face), a bit

freckled (the hooter) and the
areola soft and a
bit wrinkled: entertainment! Not path-obstructing
angering anger! In answer to your question he got
that ding on the chrome rear fender
of his Vespa from backing up

against a milestone in the south
of France; you didn’t want that much
information, I thought you wanted to meet
the guy? Likeminded individuals are
so fine whereas angry people
look like the weather especially

from afar, when gathered in a
fist-shaped clump on e.g. the horizon
like that horizon yonder … Oh that’s just a huge purple
umbrella the hand is holding
over the Collective Mass’s head – not
ominous cloud cumuli…

The calm is the calm. The fear is the substance-less-ness;
and yet you’re too afraid – or hungry –
to track the zooming Vespa down.
He’s got a beard, yeah. What? No
fucking way he’s a romantic.
Pfft. Would I EVER put our addiction in

the hands of someone who’s such a romantic
he a) grows a ridiculous beard, and b) is so
distracted by his romantic affiliations he actually
grows a ridiculous beard, and c) is too
distracted by his romantic affiliations to
help our metabolisms back on their feet?

It’s still a disaster – your, my, his neural makeups
wear disaster makeup – if you were wondering why
the angry hand was gathered outside
looking one moment very far away (like on
the horizon) and the next right here
wanting to punch the window out.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

The Last Intern On Earth

posthumanity, the bugs are ruling
everything in slow-motion
with their water-filled
(fulfilled) baby’s brain

free power flowing
backwards because everything
is still dying: the last intern at the
last hospital seeks to
conceal the last
case of gonorrhea with thumbscrews

sort of in a classroom but the windows
are different

like hysterical blood

else the t-shirt holding intestines      
looks different, and is not

the man who really built the
mechanical crocodile is
guilty, sick

and I’m awful – yeah,
I’m awful
unmarried and

the crocodile
making friends
with that awesome phone

that thing really rocks

friends’ names centipeding up
and down through-
out! so have you seen it?

with a clever twist in
and guiding humanity back into
its chickenpox suit, hoot! – in/on
the living room-
cake face, the last intern on earth
the party
I suppose in what all came
down to a friendship with
deadly cobalt in the wrong
haunted house

hooting dream-slashing
ejects cake, the hooting broadcasting
in a sort of banner ad:
Lobster Charity!
(pick the one who can stare the longest without laughing
into your eyes
through the tank’s glaucus wall.
He/she is the bravest, will
take the boiling water like a man)

you’re a centipede
living in the cobalt citizen’s intestine
but you’re furious – ten
to one at what the porn star/activist/blogger
wrote about the
leggy etiquette you employ

upping your blood-pressure
in the end probably with this gem:
‘When rolled up, from
fear – its to-die-for little legs tucked in – it looks
like a charred earth.’

ten to one
the porn star became
a blogger after first being
a porn star

Thursday, May 6, 2010

My Uncle's Voice In Morse

It looks a bit creepy but this minivan is a particularly
sentimental hand-me-down from my pedophilic uncle.
I’m parked in my minivan in front of the Shanghai expo
where folks sound more like cicadas or firearm-carrying
nanoelectronics than backpacked, sandaled, bespectacled
expo-goers. I’m a man in the paradoxical position of
needing a backhoe to uncover the cemetery under his house,
when the cemetery under his house houses skeletons. No shit,
right? But what if you were a stainless-steel time machine
(you can get those here, too, at the expo) and you needed to
travel to a time where you got eye-tasered (you get taser guns
here, too) if you didn’t say yes to fashionable exo-plumbing?
(That liked gutting itself over your blipping technology and geeky
stainless carapace, literally spraying it with brown gut-gunk?)

Let me tell you something about plumbing that worships
itself for spraying shit from the joints just to emphasize
the moral superiority of plumbing that thinks it has nothing
to hide: it has an even greater bunker mentality than scowly
pedestrians that fail to draw distinctions between a ladybug – or a
sky that looks like a ladybug’s humped, dotted back – and some
horrible chemical aftermath; with a bunker mentality – unless
my uncle’s ostracism can’t disguise itself like a lucky sky and
cramped, bunkeresque beatings is all he can look forward to –
victims paint black and white dots all over black and white-
dotted skin disease. Currently missing a loved one? Or a pet?
You can rate your victimhood according to how much that
nocturnal tapping from the plumbing sounds like happy Morse.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

In This Corset Mowed Down By Window-Shoppers

In this corset you forget you’re in a hospital,
or that you’re pissing like a monkey mid-edge
disembarking from the bed.
But never mind that, because you’re at a science fair!
And the science fair is held in Starbucks!
Your favorite place of mind-control, your favorite knot
in advertising cables. 
In this mind-control is embedded a temperament of
intricate – but very tough – fiber-optic lifespans, so you’ll hazard
registering your invention: i.e.
a corset facilitating non-shameful pantomimes
illustrating your insecurities (with PowerPoint running ditzily
in the background) during singing competitions –
even though this is a corset in which you can also eat kids, 
kids made in dark factories, where you had been made, eaten
by the corset so screw the competition,
it’s the facial flaw that comes on as you put
on your auto-hug in the window display, affection
you share with us publicly
but this is as mechanical
as that – standing there doing your monkey-piss dance on the edge
of the bed – is spontaneous.

But back to the science fair!
Without scarring or bunion-formation, you strap on these
wooden ducklings come waddling in past and sort of
just presenting themselves as bespoke science
shoes, and strapping them on
they become your feet, and it feels good, and their feet become
your nipples, and all sorts of other wicked imprints
appear – like your eligibility at this science fair
as that ultimate embodiment of perfection: i.e.
Heidi on 4chan. In lie-detector gear and snowcapped
by your porn name: ‘Hazard Heidi.’
Each of the other contestants in Starbucks
somehow think the hottest gimmicks harness photosynthesis!
Strictly speaking, you’d walked too long in electrolyte-diffuse snow
and Peter had taught you bad stable
manners; but other groovy science experiments
have strutted their stuff with electrolytes before,
ranging from grape to apple to Vodka flavors, so
maybe it’s not wise – nor original – going down this route again.

Monday, May 3, 2010

We’re Here To Save You From Extinction

Only later did a few of us realize how awfully homegrown
the cult really was, how wrinkled and straw-haired the
spokesman – a sunburn wrapped in three layers of
healing cheese – looked in the video, and what spurred a wave
of paralysis among the police detectives was arguably
justifiable within bounds. Eyewitnesses later said
when the cult members took the new guy’s head between
their hands and spoke invasive (literally invasive) insults to it,
a breeze rose up: but these eyewitnesses were far more
intrepid than the cops watching the thing from the comfort
of their sleazy office chairs.

On the cult grounds bearded men held the hands
of white hairy women, and the breeze was almost
devastating – so attracted to the cracks in the inductee’s skull.
Whatever it was, and whatever it did, it knew it couldn’t
be a wind – it would never lift its arrogant collar
and turn from a breeze into a wind – it couldn’t be particle physics
that turned clouds into dark columns of … Lacrosse testosterone!
Unless it was furtive and clever, unless it gave condolences to
victims of banality, victims of failure and pariahdom and bullyhood.
Of whatever it was that drew people to these rural outbacks.

Octopus Ink On The Pavement

it's always been fun feeding pumpkin seeds into your gorgeous nude jaw and then watching your brain kill everything    pumpkin seeds are the poorman's fibrous bullet because we neglect certain diseases like prehistoric fishbowl patterns, which is ok    we'd rather sit curbside scratching our germs in the urban heat like in a vortex of tv-abandoned airwaves, scratch-to-win ringworm tickets    flaking scalps    tell jokes – with our dirty toes squeeze schistosimasis from the bubbling tar    'i ate coke    i poured urine down the gutter    i educated ink    i sat pretty on the evil nubbin carcinoma'    i retraced my steps into the cafeteria across the sooty pavement    i ate rhabdovirus which resembled an evil robot's dick from a crisps packet that also resembled evil space storms    with some degree of trepidation i returned to the arcade game standing there in a black octagonal squat with a smattering of useless tentacles and red half-moon eyes menacing me    i prepared to better my old score

Sunday, May 2, 2010

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How Jagermeister Resuscitated Buck Rodgers’ Soul

Those wooden rickety pillboxes
that stand about the woods under mossy
shadow-canopies scare me.
Half-demolished by Ewoks, two-legged
Imperial stompers that creak drunkenly
among the trees, shooting twin lasers
at furry animals, they merely just
STAND there. I mean…
But a type of Buck Rodgers that lost self-awareness
masturbates in there to kill time,
and to fondle the deer tail
that used to be attached to the hypersonic glider
folded at his feet. He will be lifted up

before the Jagermeister crucifix
dawns shimmeringly on the open field,  
before his bloodlust starts smelling
like moldy armpits, and be soft like
the stuff growing under his toenails. Which
is why those wooden pillboxes
scare me. Folded inside of them, in
addition to these hunters’ coffee
percolators and the blueprints to
Elvis impersonations they don
to stun dumb animals with humor,
is everything you don’t
want to know about.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Those Shorts Won't Like Our Brutal Urban Doorsteps

I dislike the eye drowning in Bigfoot’s assprint.
In the lush grass in that deep crater,
secular sex’s demise –
in addition to not being an art –
has no clue how bricks work.
But that was how our village looked, there were no
bricks – only crooked, twirly chimneys – and all our witches
did all day was look for the serpentine sandal.
They didn’t question why the tree line around the assprint bent
into the shape of huge checkered shorts,
specked with grass leaves and unscuffed by mortar –
erratic movements spreading beyond the hemline:
then quietly strangled.
But when do serpentine movements turn into belly dancing?
When do they become gaga, as it were,
as in the early evening with petroleum poured on the joke –
which witches find SO gross.
Then with white knuckles they pried open
the meat but the suburbs on the sparkling orbiting
postcards that slipped out were SO posh:
by our tradition we considered it criminal having ass-killing lawns
like that.

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