Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Skipping college for dispensing
Hasidic wisdom in a post office
is not altogether bad career counsel.
Right now there’s a spooky correlation
between studying and going bald from
bad sex. Being a matador curbside
excused being drunk all my life – and
the back brace remanding me to
the lighter strains of some racetrack musical
written by a former cover girl for
beautiful paraplegics is like a million
dollar food stamp, career-wise. Not – haha –
not FRUIT amp: where the tangled shine
is loosened in dust, where you’re standing
alone without your dyslectic Vitamin C.

Nah, I’m not a sissy. I’m the whipped cream
asbestos, bullying veggies off
the periodic table and programming
sperm to stampede all over your
snow-covered teacup. We’re the
Fiji post office party scene! We’re the
adventures of a half finished beer
made dumb in the manufacture!

Monday, November 29, 2010


The source of unity is a mixture of heterogeneous elements. This happened: Rene Zellwegger’s new, zoocentric priorities. She was a Somali teenager who’d run away with a pimp’s cane, then disappeared into the passionate caress of the Hadron Collider. The chunk of a molecule died by being awkwardly poked. Right Said Fred lyrics on a packet of Ambien: ‘Let’s not beat about the bush – I quite fancy the 24m x 24m silk screen print of my buttocks on your living room wall.’ A mother cracking ice off the babybottle. Her niche is very limited. Her breasts are covered in knuckleduster sparkles. A pendulous ponderous pendulum swings its sinister shadow across her nose. Scary eyes in the haute couture of the 1960s. A chunk dies somewhere out there. Somewhere out there, there’s a chunk of something unidentifiable that dies. Either a chunk of bagel or a chunk of Chuck Norris. Italy looks like a spatula from space. Scott Pilgrim is the weapon in an electric Nissan Leaf. His car purports to possess a veritable trove of information about the microbial life forms in your ballsack, obtained via sensors in the snake fangs poking from the seats. The sparseness of blue in the billowing destruction and corruption and humoristic Disney-themed clouds of ginger explosives. Chuck Norris, the 84-year-old man in a giant skirt polluting the airwaves in risqué picture books. Missing a chunk. A gangrenous blur of something missing on his bicep. The blot I left behind when I shot my wife. The mystery worm crawling through space. The morale of the unhealthy imagination increased when German pop star Conny Cornelia Froboess was born in an old mill. My tooth was abused in prison.

Friday, November 26, 2010


Landmine magic. Protesting by faking a limp. Satiated dead hooker hogs the fishing spot. Being an entrepreneur will totally change his smell. Inimitable Doritos, the galaxy’s tiny furniture. Substance abuse is a home in oil cans. Jumping suddenly out of my own digestive system. The space inside the stencil of me. Driven into an E.coli frenzy. Meltdown’s monster pill. It was like a ride. Keeping conflict within the cherry flavor of the galaxy. The old man’s incredible secret illicit deeply hidden oeuvre of sea turtles. A prank gone deadly fantastically awry. I limit my intrigue to shopping guides. I love rusty garden tools. 

Thursday, November 25, 2010


Rapunzel’s locks at the end sport a brawny, veiny claw with many thin fingers holding my hand like a crosshatched drawing. Something in the ardor of her grip is interfering. It may be liquid nitrogen. If my love for her now explodes into an unflattering color chart it would just weird me out. She’d be OK with it. She grew up with elves who mistook her grandfather’s old wood-and-copper accounting apparatus as a sex machine, she can take anything. She’d road-tripped with rabies, actual rabies – those molecules on Dancing with the Stars – and got mobbed at every picnic site by chipmunks who cried in chipmunk voices for her blood, for her blood, for her ‘blood pu-dinnnnnng.’ There isn’t anything she hasn’t already looked at with burning lust in her eyes. Including chipmunks.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


I am not exaggerating nor being overly sentimental when I say that astronaut excrement is my beloved brand, and I’m not being mawkish or grossly one-sided, I’m not displaying perverse favoritism, when I say Hermes couriers delivers it with the same dedication and affection and timing that have come to define them as my favorite couriers. I feel better. I feel so good. I feel now exactly the way Kate Moss must feel when her arthritis pain is lower in TRON couture, and when she’s buzzing through the city in her Toyota Prius minivan. A sense of lightness. This shit is exempt from gravity, after all.

The noise would stun, the noise of the shattered glove. The hand that is sound in the grip of suicide, that self-destructs in its digited cloak. Why does self-immolation and self-harm in general, when aimed at simultaneously harming others, cause utter devastating destruction? Utter noise? Why’s it so damn noisy? As if we give a damn about the original victim, the central brick in the irradiating wall, as if our empathy for the naked megaphoned suicide streaker adds to the pain his fleshtoned embarrassment passing through us causes? I don’t care about you, hand. And yet when you shatter this object, and your glove breaks in a million shards, I am deafened. Despite not really giving a damn about you. Noise that nearly trumps the episode on television in which Stephen Colbert used ten Asian girls and an object that didn’t make a sound, nor was designed to make a sound, but looked as though it could be very noisy, to promote his new energy drink?

Monday, November 22, 2010


On the top landing, observing the dirty rocket trying to climb the spiral staircase. The cat’s claw’s tristesse, from being away from the balloon milk. Frida Kahlo’s hysteria over the hairy blood vessel on her brow, sweat like leaves covered in urine. Cabbage Patch kids constipate the Menorah. The more of a grotesque consumer the Pope becomes, the more his wing catches fire. None of us are what we really want to be, except the condom. Which isn’t either what it wants to be but thinks it is. Namely bald. To precipitate the mermaid’s flight. A seagull wears its heart on its sleeve, then when not drinking from it puts it down on a sugar coaster. This way Bambi’s earplugs melt, just as condensation gives a loud report. The deafening music my guardian angel listens to while cleaning out my car. A slow-dance with lithium, also found in 7-Up and also quite a sexy mechanical model. So where has my sweater been hiding? Stolen from the school mascot in a Santa Clause pat-down. My Nissan’s shame. Flying when not playing with traffic.   

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


This climate change was triggered by a group of old biddies’ three-day birthday vigil. Do they also want to help out, and get the stretch-pants panorama back on its feet? ‘You can be a bundled up human mind,’ one says, ‘to perceive the pleats in the smutty backyard’s heartbeats.’ They exchange pleasantries for some time, time itself overtakes them, seasons, geodesic shifts, until the urine of polar bears freezes on their upper lips.

Green teleportation takes Evel Knievel from the rear, but it only rapes the cracks in his heartbreak. It has a thing for concrete, not the failure of distances and the whine of motorcycle chains. Actually it meant to catch something that fell when he jumped over the Grand Canyon on his super-bike. Did it sound like a water well hiccupping? Whatever it was, it was lost forever.

Mickey Mouse has fangs. She was on the phone with the tamer and he told her to hold him still on the ground until he stopped squirming and screeching like a wild animal. He was on his way. He got lost in space. It took him over six hours to find his way back. Space is a network of penny arcade tapestry. He arrived flustered and out of breath. His face drained with shock at the sight of Mickey Mouse. It felt as though his mind had been pruning under the shower too long. His red neck had been crammed in a bottle and expanded until a pornographic light went on somewhere. Somewhere cold. Somewhere where there weren’t any humans, only stupidly-named magic believed in by the dirty night and the rubber bands that stretched and snapped dustily and with the smell of burning sweat to the sound of magic’s own stupid name. Mickey Mouse’s face had seemingly passed through the same Ice Age.

Friday, November 12, 2010


His home theatre is secretly rigged with equipment that monitor unique eye movements, flitting eye movements, straying eye movements, static, strained, pinioned, dazzled, sparkly, glassy eye movements, because he is always so concerned people he invites to come and watch movies don’t enjoy themselves or aren’t engrossed or aren’t having a good time. Always so concerned they’d rather be somewhere else. Always so concerned they’re wasting their time. Always so concerned it's more fun to let their eyes wander about the place instead of fix firmly on the home theatre screen because apparently it's more fun to let your eye stray toward a dusty fake pot plant than keep them fixed until stars and stripes and pale electric spirals form on the home theatre screen. Don’t let him show you his art works because basically the same principle applies there. He’s fashioned a strange little showpiece of a sleeping bag that has whooping coughs and progresses along and around a short square area in stop motion. It’s a rather disturbing and saddening sight seeing the sleeping bag crawl along the floor not unsimilar to a caterpillar or some other crawly creature but in stop motion, each jerky bend or crinkle of its body accompanied by a whooping, heartrending and saddening cough. I’m given to pitying such creatures, and usually it shows, I cannot help myself, thus it is especially awkward for me to be asked by him to watch his artwork in action as I cannot forbear from putting my hand to my mouth and staring on in horror. And it is the last reaction he wants from appraisers of his art. He wants them to enjoy it. He has unique eye movement sensors in this little room where the coughing sleeping bag is held captive like a starving animal or kidnap victim, too. He can see, brooding some time late at night in front of the monitors when playing back my visit, if my attention had been arrested pleasantly or not. He can see where my eyes had been straying toward. Which usually is all over the place, as I cannot help it.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010


Teen romance is inside a clam. S&M sex is bolted in sea water. A Russian criminal loves the cafeteria bedwetter. Says: ‘How do you do that? I have a tattoo of that and your explanation will make it meaningful. Please demonstrate how you wet your bed in cafeterias. Please give my tattoo ontological weight.’ Dick warts as a skin problem trumps the hormonal rush at Hogwarts. Walkman’s pig liver has become outdated, stubbly. We welcome the national consciousness’s invasion by hamsters on National Sex Toy Day. No other creature lives symbiotically so tightly with us. No other furry water gun lends itself to such easy wielding. ‘Sir, will I meet the terrifying shrimp in the afterlife? Is it true what the prophets say – that its badass rep will be drastically reconsidered?’ Lidless eye. How Adrien Brody proclaimed it and glamorized it and promoted it as the Hollow Implant, to contrast the profitless fertility of his niece’s ballet shoes. His niece whom he’d fucked. Twice. With his hook eye. The pianist was quoted correctly. He did say the President is an idiot. And a heckler. And an arbitrary tinkerer of the menstrual flowchart. A Twinkie cracked in half. A giraffe’s head poked out, through the white scum. Whereupon it was immediately struck by lightning. Toothpicks skewer and support the slow, sultry, understanding nod. Blazing eyes in a foam case. Car accident-proof Burka. Patrick Bateman sported it once, then his antenna bustled with strange obscene signals that transmitted down his torso and caused a bad case of itchy genitals he then used a guitar pick to alleviate, only to subsequently strut around the apartment in a cloud of Dior perfume his sunbed had earlier turned into a nauseous mist generated mostly by home movies in which a pet gets seriously hurt. For shits and giggles. Wolverine does not cope in high society. Knuckle blades sprung like an old mattress’s rusty squeaky springs, he sits on a government issue Porta-Potty shaped like a Porsche and equipped with a joystick that guides his bowel movements through high-rises when he and the Porta-Potty decide, lacklusterly, wistfully, nostalgically to go flying. A celebrity lost in a children’s pop-up book. Forced to learn and, burp-inducingly, read bullfrog typography. Forced to wrestle a miscarried cardboard pop-up fetus. Is eluded by the fetus popping back into its womb when the page is closed, leaving a pink jet contrail in its wake. The celebrity is aware of the Hollywood glitch. Knows it is there for structural purposes. Virgin Galactic sadism broadcast shamelessly in bold pink cartoon letters on a hemp flyer. The man who shat himself. The poor bastard who was the first to ever take the Virgin Galactic cruise is now known as ‘The man who shat himself.’ This calls for a revolt, thought Bigfoot. Without thinking anything subsequently. Resuming tending his garden in peace wearing a vacuous grin, his hands clad in daisy-pattered gardening gloves. Wild West joblessness remanded countless bikini wrestlers to the New Orleans French quarter. Half-naked but on the whole friendly and good-intentioned wrestling under the romantic webcam of a cracking dawn. Developing a taste for fainting at movies. Under the watchful eye of male reproductive disorders. That most Rolls Royce of bruises. What a heckler they think I am. When in fact I am spongebased. Watch. I’m gonna faint and fall and it won’t hurt. I swear one day with this talent I’ll give talk shows back their dignity. The opening act. My railway system of black teeth. Surrounded by a yellow lawn.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010


I moved my new car, angrily, after the 3D printer vomited it out. I didn’t want to be parked next to one of the printer’s other aberrant creations: a selfish pig in an igloo. ‘The way to hell is canned – is a pizza chain oriented along the vector of the glittering dolphin’s thigh,’ the pig told me as I peered in and wondered if it thought either of us was parked in the wrong place. ‘The one who melts first under the skull street lamps is parked in the wrong place.’ I kept the following rude assumption to myself: that it, not I, was parked in the wrong place.

Fragments of Ben Nye rape makeup hit the fan and was karateed by the blades into the form of yet another new breed of worthless sentience: a switchboard operator sunbathing in a straightjacket. Lights blip crazily around him – a dragonfly lightsaber fight jumping on the bed to a banned dancefloor anthem. The weather update deliberately intimidates us with promises of an utopia made of crude materials gorging on fractals. I like the switchboard operator’s worthless handling of the console. To wit: an atom-based stunt based on the ancient technique of the ‘squirm.’

One of the partners in couples therapy was a mechanical fish. The therapist, clad in micro-mesh, assessed the situation from a bunker underneath the maximum security prison where his patients were housed with a periscope jammed nonlethally through the McRib in the hands of the non-mechanical fish partner. The distraught relationship he was trying to remedy was cargo lined in fish oil due to be sent to a Mexican border town the next day, where it would be detonated in a display of highly eclectic, hugely disorientating fireworks to celebrate the opening of a new bridge and the erection of a Morgan Freeman statue, his surgical mask bulging on the hour as the iconic actor burps grenades, to mark the passage of time.

Monday, November 1, 2010


The apartment’s AC has to be trained to do the ‘obnoxious sniff,’ to make it a better environment for giant insects. I want to be taught the empty gesture’s sideways movement, to perform it without hesitation. With amped kneecap in robotic hoodie, it used to be such a great co-pilot, but we parted ways. I want to blend reality with elephant lips; through its grill my AC said that’s more harmful than crashing truffles. With acoustic guitar and rose in teeth, it decided to direct the fitness montage of Doctor Octopus in ski boots. I’m lonely now, of course. But today in the personals I saw that the human liver is learning from the whitewash, and needs help taking smarter, more economic cues from jingles stuck in its head. Fright bleaches – that’s what I learned. And that the rescue will pass you by if you’re stuck in airplane porn. And Mars will become one of the caterpillar’s eggs. And sanity’s landing strip will slather fake balm over her wheels – the instant she grows into a piñata whose gramophone heart will be a byproduct of shattered absence. A raider of fake tunes’ heart. My favorite faker. 

NR. 114

1. Villain:

The toad picked the thin crowd where it could comfortably
hop. It hates shambling. Either this penchant has to do
with arrogance or the toad was warned by somebody –
by that guy with the bacon sign on his chest. ‘Don’t
buy T-shirts with bacon on the front.’ Or perhaps it
was just warned not to buy T-shirts. ‘If you hate shambling …
well that’s exactly what you’ll do through the strange
aftertaste of the haunted fountain sprouting in your mouth.’
The villain has no costume; a spell-caster who likes
to laxly dominate fans with his mutton chops and
CGI blurs or loins coincidentally censored by the odd
passing leaf or brick, almost unthinkingly kicking into
place with his hairy, swampy feet the quickly building fear’s
Tetrominos. He has a soft spot – or we have a
soft spot – or it’s soft-spot inducing – when all this
is done in favor of the laborious exercise of making
jawbone puree. 

2. Hero:

He’s the neighborhood scapegoat way too frequently:
Southern hospitality put the other nail
in the coffin of Liam Neeson’s nap. Our idea of
good and bad was trying to rape something and all
it managed to rape was grayscale. He became known
on the lowlands and bayous as the caped crusader
despite being a self-proclaimed antebellum-phobe.
The exotic plant who booked a room on that bloodbath
family tree. He stole the effect of the widow or widower’s
egg salad sandwich by missing out on all the action;
by finding no use for the world’s disaster. 
His nap is actually death in the disguise of the
Caped Crusader’s massage therapist painting dunes
all over his haunted hotel room’s walls. Nr. 114.
No room for Liam Neeson himself; no room
even for the sand.

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