Tuesday, October 19, 2010

SMALL-TOWN MARATHON

Most of these appendages have been surgically applied,
extracted from the pale iritic liquid in unlabelled bottles:
everyone is insecure about the fact that
armless jaws pose no danger.

The meanest of the monkeys wear socks over shoes.
This is the height of hubris what 
with demented dairy farmers marauding the land
aching to bust the shrink off those dead animals.

Save a nickel on the faintly glowing space rock – expensive
squeezeballs are for Aleister Crowley types
languishing with their pet weasels in front the TV
stress-balling to the infamous Baywatch remake.

A real collector of corpse sandals trains his loot to
adhere to the cliff-side diving board – the tour bus
skewered into the side of the cliff, bobbingly overlooking
the grimly dystopian landscape. The sandals left
behind will sadden the next potential suicide diver
to death.

A farewell note curled in the head of a hammer
stolen, come by via dishonest means, dislodges the giant
blot clot in meat pastie’s Femoral artery, dashing cathedrals
into pudding factories…

The voodoo that removes nits and boogers from
the zebra print cycling jersey. Laugh all you want:
I’d rather be non-biodegradable stone age carvings
on a pair of thin wheels zooming past – and narrowly
missing – a bunch of stunned explorers

than the life signals of one acting dead, or the weather
balloon thinking itself dealing someone a mean curveball.
Dead thumb piano believing hate. Gas guzzler suicide
music on the spooky dairy farm. Senses basking in enough
magical thinking until the two ends of some
random, small-town marathon lethally tie together. 

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