Monday, June 28, 2010

Slipper Lying Face Down Beside Dead Campfire, In The Gloom

'For what I felt then, there, fireside, was patent rejection at the notion that my loved-one had been taken by a werewolf and I had been deemed, by this beast – which stank – unfit. Not tasty. Or whatever … I had been deemed unwanted, dispensable, unbecoming. Whathaveyou. And then, when I felt this little sting on my right ear’ – he touched his right ear – ‘and brought my hand before my eyes and beheld the blood, a little spatter on my finger, a little, ever so minute, smear, and realized that I’d been bitten, by the werewolf, ever so slightly, like a tiny nibble, like I’d been tinily nibbled on … that was when I felt my strongest sense of rejection. For, as you can imagine, I realized, logically, that the monster had nibbled on my ear, dubbed me untasty, unwanted, dispensable, left me for Sheryl … nibbled, in effect, on my ear, and then dissed me in favor of Sheryl, which I didn’t blame him for since I would probably have done the same, had I been a horrible werewolf, but all the same … had nibbled on my ear (the werewolf had) and found it wasn’t so good. I didn’t taste so good … but you have to understand that it was also incredibly bad then to have woken there in the dark in the blush of the dying embers and realized I was alone, that a monster had just passed through here, that it had picked around the campsite in search of something that tickled its fancy … had left then eventually and left behind what obviously hadn’t tickled its fancy … and it was terrible, you realize, to find yourself lying there left behind. The moon had settled behind the trees. The girlfriend, my girlfriend … gone; and, yeah, everything as before except with one or two things here and there amiss, and I … well, I just lay there. A discarded or overlooked entity. But, granted, it was bad to have realized that Sheryl was gone and that she’d been taken and the monster now obviously had her etc.’

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Ghost House

The slideshow was fascinating at first, the
gore-development looking suspiciously like
the warped soul’s half-smoke coagulating and
retreating to the bell tower. Alone dickering with
charm’s special effects: the abductee’s whirring escape
flirt. For a long time preserved in the dead oxygen
of Zoloft capsules, each kiss spring out pixie thin.
This way we all leave houses that don’t want to let
us go, along country roads lined with cussing sneering
lawn ornaments. If you squint they turn into dull orange
skulls creepier than this. Pick up your cane, Aphrodite,
your cane made of carnivals but when they die and
peel off there’s only a heap of old dusty leaves on
the threshold, chip-tune ringing forever through
the hallway. Fans have since the seventies launched
white-eyed raids on the famous Hollywood ghost house;
what’s left of you stamp jaunty and mad, peg leg,
for it’s finally been sold.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

We Shall Go All The Way

Rot’s smeary knife blunts delivery of life
like slow mail carrying the transplant –
the mouse ears I decided to get without kitsch
surgery. I know that many bacteria will froth around
the hole the mouse gene will be insert into,
but I’m committed to this: I nod when confronted
with the alternatives. An Avenger’s sleek suit
or Leonard Nimoy’s blurry nudes. The process
by which these ears will grow will either smell
like a spoon breathing back the polisher’s huffs and
wipes; or it would look like life as it stands
like a dish-washed spoon up-right and true.
Well, ‘true’ according to lab standards…
When I was a child, I ladled a toy flying saucer
into the air because it fit so nicely into the silver
burrow. This is why the trans-plant needs to be
authentic, for I am no longer a child. Gouging out
rot’s bad fuzz from the lab’s grouting will
make the difference between Spock, the vaccine-
sensitive mutant, and the many cosplayers 
who have not seen ears as real as these.

Monday, June 21, 2010

How We All Play, And Suddenly Emerge From, The Video Game Saying Something Life-Changing

Aquaman finally learned how to wet the surface,
handled the leak with a hustle and a sweaty rap,
honest fat and navel closure – if life was going
to be this mean at least let us choose where
the shrapnel should stick and spill,

at least let the garage remote control
shuffle the tarot reading to DONKEY
or KICK ME over the incubus’s snoring back, 
puff pieces defining the bordello
like a message written in push pins

behind the red, hungover dawn eyelid,
antennae scattered over the carpet: 
they might as well have been us
playing Tecmo Bowl like
tomorrow would suck us in,
they might as well have been
the monster reworked.

Frankenstein’s first impression of himself as
he watched an implemented electronic
advertising display and the cornucopia of
automata click-clacketing in: ‘I’m going to view
the altered hormone – instead of I: Altered Self – as 

the rehab of tomorrow.’ That’s right, Frankenstein –
I don’t get everything platter-presented like you do
lying back comfortably and getting a
creation wank-over like the E-cookbook
that now can talk the eel out of the bowl

so me, I can’t CHOOSE to sound indignant oh
wait – to say ‘I don’t get everything platter-presented’ sounds
pretty indignant erm, so … Wait, you over there with the
microwave oven’s brain: yes you, I KNOW you often
yearn back for the day the sorrows in your mouth

weren’t self-replicating from the starting line
of cells where your creator scraped his foot
and yelled: SPEAK!

like a gen

Friday, June 18, 2010

Evil Inventor And His Vegetarian Henchman

here is where almost everything in the world is hypocritical and can’t blush
this amazing tendon can be snatched up at any time and used to bludgeon someone to death
now look for ethical justification and try popping those quantum pimples on its back
walk into the middle of a lawnmower carnage and wipe the blood and slime that hang in the air like a lightning storm no transparent café in sight or backyard party toddling on clear, delicate cups
the tendon goes into the batcave and is gnawed on, alone, this is the evil boss alone but he goes to sleep with a clean conscience: at least
because he’s evil a seasonal gift-buyer and dabbler in fun autopsy (it comes in a box and when you shake it you hear plastic pieces inside and the swish of instruction booklets – perhaps also a mask, a microscope, a killer cyclotron and some kick-ass Tesla coils? 

you’re still a violinist so swing that tendon across the strings we can listen with our steel drum ears and fill with gloomy percussions the silences in your excuse for killing the zombie with a paper weight (magnet murder like a fancy excuse consisting of one large, pure umbrella)
spans across like molecules holding hands below on a pavement catching a baby falling from the tenth floor window no need for steel over eardrums to hear music in the deaf hollows
it crawls across on all fours like red bloody tomato skin chased by a drunk machete

Monday, June 14, 2010

City Voice

I wonder if the city has
seen the beautiful fiber sing
open bleeding throat,
that wet noodle with
the sentence written on
the side that squeals
when you stretch it.

If one can say things
in a robot’s voice and
if your vowels will wear
silver bikinis after the tattoo
seepage has been dragged
like cloth off an auction
piece: or the polluted oyster

if it knows how its black
perfume will stagger through
the gluten, a rubber band
shot from a finger through
total darkness, like a quarrel
in a dungeon: the word wants
an exhaust pipe, someone

mentally impaired to settle
with and feel buff and gingerhaired
bullying with poetry. Hands
that built a paper jet
that didn’t swerve to hit
the window and plop down
uselessly into the flowerbed. 
You can start smiling now:

for I love the dumb fume
of your breath and the
spiritual word. It likes
aerials on tall buildings
it likes to tie its cape to
them it likes things that
flap around them, to feel
like a radio DJ and what with
the skyscraper aerial cape
to feel like a sedentary superhero:

voices and songs transmitted
from these aerials will feel buff
and greasy-haired. ‘Apartment blocks
don't fly of their own accord,
you know?’ say the nanotubes
who are opening the doors and
walking down the stairs
dragging leashes snapped
at the necks.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

The Postman Only Rings, Like, A Few Times

He got bitten and chased by dogs, mocked
by kids, hit by cars – and yet we liked
the misguided postman, the way he thwarted
our gardens. It was sunny the day he died.
We can no longer follow his messages the
way we follow tongues in the changing rough
craggy cheek, our tongue in cheek thank
yous when he posited the goods. What
was his name? Was everyday at work for
him a layer of blood, knee deep in kaki
knee-length mailman shorts and ballsweat?
What seeped into the raw open cuts in
his will? Wrists cut hands dogbitten fallen over
the picket fence – how’s that for putting
the wrong thing into somebody’s letter box?

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Come Out, Baby, And Cut My 3-Billion Sensors In Half

I’m a lobster looking for a lobster willing to die
with a water pistol in each claw, cold water

peeing up into the cook’s face and melting it off.
What I can’t eat what others grow big on, sleepy, tough

except when soft, i.e. engaged in nostalgic things
as in nostalgic boxing. Claws and red turbo engine

cross-cuts super villainy. It’s a bit like cheating
naked acceleration through the zoo

zoo bares all then ambushed oh no – I’m still
willing to die but it’s not very nice, nervous like

an echo in a bison’s horn. Super villainy is
the only thing that keeps me from loving you

to the full. Who can really love in death?
In water sprinklers that killed Alien

in the end? ‘Hit the sprinklers, Ripley!’
Super villainy takes croquette shots in

yo-yo 360-degree around-the-world-style
swings, pummels off those lobsters it can’t reach,

funny that life’s travails which you’re supposed
to measure on a futuristic calculator

still imbue these pastimes, weird game indeed, womb lock
sleep clock, display your elevation oh difficult situation,

yes difficult situation: bat those cancer spots down
from hanging branches I say to the world I work for

I work for you appearing every morning at my desk
in riot gear ready to die. I wish every mouth

has handles, shake those cheeks baby
talk my language. Say: ‘Where can I find the thing

I love?’ My lobster girlfriend? The one with the beady eyes
on stalks, the one with the black carapace the one … oh

who am I kidding, she looks just like me
except every OTHER bum reminds me of latex

wedding cake each mouth here ruins the joke.
The periodic table on the wall is a good idea

for someone (I think it’ll be me) will turn it
all into wax and derive immense power from it

unlock all the animals, beautify acceleration in
reversed underwear. Antennae with gout

are fucking magical yes you can sense it too:
How they trash talk TV vets, menace the world’s

hanging stars with retinal lasers
hissing to our water pistols!

One day in the dark I’ll see her crouching there
in the steel corner. ‘Don’t look at me like that like!’

Ambushed before I’ve even begun my successful tramp
through life semi-willing to die, at which point

I’ll say to her, ‘Me too! Also semi! Come on out!’
and together we’ll be completely willing

at least so my calculations say, my calculator,
each of my three billion wriggling sensors

Sunday, June 6, 2010

The Goonies

Blood and guts etc. make me feel like a sinner,
their lead, the thing that makes everything plummet
gets grosser, and summer tourism briefly shuts down
because of this. Blob Watch calls in circumcision –
there’s a thing found on the beach, something has fallen
upwards through the skin that insulates nausea.
But this jugular cannot be truncated: it’s not a lawn
on which an animal has been slaughtered and then scoured
with some bloodthirsty lawnmower. So I send it out on
a flotilla, I stand there waving and my aura is gray…
The Goonies arrive, late as usual, out of breath you’re out
of breath – I tell them the squelch of their sandals too
can be frittered into a series of deaths and lie
there visible like a corpse in the reeds. They arrive loudly
and an octopus could’ve shot them over its shoulder
with a curved handgun so obnoxious they are. But the Squad
can see the object’s undercurrents: rip-off tools in their beanbags,
they can rip off the manhole cover and see underground. 
Briefly shutting down during their decent to the bottom
of the pit, their silent balloon walk in the dank air
is a nod to the Michelin Man somnambulist.
The most notorious new shoes drift in the forensic artery.
It’s no coincidence the cholesterol farmer’s favorite
new buzzword is ‘drifting’ amid a nest of tentacles:
I ‘drift’ expelled from the clique forming a manhole
cover of the summer’s photo’s iron particles,
the jugular’s hardassed central station, next stop
the feet and then the maggot metropolis.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Who I Thought I'd Sit Next To In Geography Class

glad to see you again continental lips who blew perfect circles
who wore a kooky hat who was undefeated in quiz shows
I heard about it on the recliner I couldn’t get up I was so numb with the thought of you
silk jacket homeless cat/hockey player who had sex crickets outside her window scuffing at the panes, their own little hockey sticks a tape worm with a club foot, they tried to emulate you it was how they thought they’d get in via the cracks
they shimmied in snake oil to lubricate their bodies they used no engines it made too much of a noise, we entered with our faces cut off flip off the wall if someone caught us we’d downplay the event
lip blobs, completely ignores the sounds in her walls so amorphous and smelling like the soul of a young grass blade will only test new yogurt products will only perk up her ears to the song of new rockets tested outside in the yard now without body, now sleeping only under thin sheets that don’t touch the skin you don’t have a skin your real body is in drawers legs in one compartment arms in another head a porcelain doll’s perfect lewd ring-blowing mouth around the moon
in the kerfluffle outside on the lawn the homeless man lost his love letter
I developed a gratuitous amount of layers did a hokey poky flip off of his back in the end it was down to me and him you shouted cerebral failure down out from the window, how sad, how longing, and when we responded there was a buzz as of from our favorite quiz show
geography slut

Thursday, June 3, 2010


Ouch, my elbow hurts this morning.
I've frittered away my extinction in stormwater and
left carbon footprints as big and clunky as WWII mines.
When I've had a show like this my entrails
seep away in parallel tangential runoffs
consisting of zombie enzymes.

Well, I just know I've been conjoined again at the elbow
(hence the hurt) and with my partner used a parachute
to plumb the limits of our dark energy. My sidekick has
been Austrian cannibalistic predator, brogue-wearing composer of entertaining audio/video skits Heinz Schultz – a man who has been kicked out of the Warner offices with the thing that killed King Tut.

When we smoke pot together, we're our own domino
culture, our sideshow shack inevitably turns into
a monster hangout, and there's this wonderful effect we bring
off: we fall over and there's this slidey motion; we
remain perfectly and eerily conjoined – and our internet videos
invariably go viral. And so this is the exciting news I have for you.

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