Friday, April 30, 2010

Hey I Want My Girl Back

Marty lent faith (and ten dollars) to a complete stranger, some
Australian guy, and thought he’d
get that girl of his (he’d also lent his girl) back, and oh
she did like paisley – could even wander cautiously into
that first-person-fornicator view
people with red curls in their blood do cautiouslessly.
Roller coasters may cause cat-level head pressure at
the bottom of the loop, people can pick only
from cat-level bookshelves; like, they skulk
around there where interesting shit can be seen: i.e. at
bed-level…
That’s how Marty started borrowing anyhow: he’d realized it
exemplified genius. And when you’re cockblocked by this
feminizing empathy, by this paralyzing nasal spray – that’s
almost as lame as demanding the ten dollars (and the girl) back,
a week before due date.

Can gushing sex parts answer the biggest questions about frugality?
Marty needs to start stealing corduroy like this
from pretty legs and stay away from Australian guys
taking advantage of nerdy locals.
His kindness balances on a ball, serves drinks, but meanwhile
the bordello is in poor shape: let’s
spruce it up, people! Overachieving Australian guys
buying ‘buy your own riot’ holiday packages
don’t appreciate the riots they buy, Marty. Like,
they don’t even totally use them.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Nested Limp

Five minutes later, I could say with kind of 
mystified airs that the nuclear accident had hit the spot.
It invented a new type of leather-winged orphanism.

I didn’t feel fresh in the sense of being revivified
or my color centers tickled by today’s biotech scratchiti.
I felt more like a taser-induced birth defect:

my mother saw the flying lizard predator thing
and withdrew into her warm nest but
left a leg sticking out which got nipped,

so really I was born this way. The gangrene
had spread into the milk; entire mental reaches
of unborn bubbleheads were tweaked into the
sad relaxed world-view of a stay-at-home thirsty cow,

always thirsty, always thirsty.
Always, these days, saying to ourselves: it’s gonna be a long day.  
Morphine aficionados aren’t that bad, you know? They’re empowered

by the atrocious family of party-throwers. 
So what? I’ve become a member, we’re a family now,
and to be paid handsomely to

in the mornings do my teeth with the deadly curse of
dentals thrown from a rooftop ensures I will never
bite the leg of someone harboring beautiful potential.

Rentals starting at $35 per morning –
these braces are virtually constructed from nest
twigs, for woodsy camouflage,

and while Super Mario Bros. drive tranquility down a suicidal path,
cripples like me invent their own board games –
to be played with new families in relative, unhobbled peace.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Homecoming

Her memory ruined the scintillating trailerpark summer,
its lens on the Wimpy burger and
its nose filled with the gray doghouse odor.
The salad like melted tennis shoes.
She could’ve had fun, but this negative faculty
contributed to the cancellation of almost 100, 000
of the funniest parolees to be featured
on the giant trailer-sized television, which inexplicably retired
with an oldmannish wheeze and a big
coke face spitting plasma.
This wouldn’t sound like a big deal if you’ve
never seen a funny man on parole:
now picture a hundred thousand. How the
heck could Misty have prioritized a mere bad
memory of a hamburger over this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity? Misty lives in a trailer but her nose
is good. Her sensibility is so refined it’s virtually
Spock-eared. Fine, but wouldn’t this totally have
trumped that historical bad experience?
It was just a burger, for Christ’s sake;
we substitute bad things with good things
and the spin-offs are gluteal clefts nudged onto the riverbanks –
sunny around the shaded crack,
sane body temperature in a tear dress. 
Find your kickstarter, Misty.
Don’t recall that movie. Its vibes are bad
although its moral is good: a dark cavity develops
differently in a furry head.
Jake – the fucker who built a glass staircase to
your trailer bedroom which you’re too afraid to climb –
is coming home and would’ve been among the 100k
hilarious cons; now he’d probably just slump in
through the tin door and you’d get your usual
loveless head-pat, a hello
that sounds a lot like vomiting voicemail.

Bat Performer

Bad news for the anthrax on the striped sockbottom
of the amputee bat. The myth about the dust it
kicks up in its one-legged dance is truly a distortion –
the dance is cute and it’s heartrending seeing an
animal go at it with such heart and vigor. But the dust
is dust: i.e. really deadly dust. How many an audience member has
had some kicked in their face and frothingly croaked?  
There are a gazillion deadly atoms in a pixel of
his dance routine but only one billion in a grain
of sand – how much egregious vertigo is in a
grain of anthrax? And when it comes to fighting crime
how is a concerned citizen who is too fat to fly
supposed to fight the lovable bat’s incidental dust-
spray when he does his one-legged can-can up there
in his striped sock? Can you really kill such a thing?
The performer is made of math and in a jacket
stained with blood imbues show business; it is not
necessarily religion it cleaves with a butcher knife
and the design of its leathery wing-jacket – despite evidence of
unorthodox physics and weird aeronautical integers –
doesn’t zip-reveal the interior of a troll.

The bat cracks me up, on my couch over here: as a
comic book solicitor, and a saver of slack, lace-fly sweaters –
occasionally with black fingernails talking up some ladies –
watching his routine and getting dust kicked in my face
is like chemo given to my bologna sandwich. One has to be
a little cruel sometimes, one has to have an opinion, one has
to say something – and not just sit back and grow fat and grow
hairy eyes – so here it goes: I think the bat’s little top hat
is a little gratuitous.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Do Allegories Talk Like Innards?

Airport screeners can see muscles caused by laughing,
recycled Möbius strips, pancreatic oysters splashed 
across the insect visor – and they are therefore 
pseudo-scientific, they have more fun doing Chernobyl silkscreens
or spotting odd body carve-outs, death rays giggling
at old kidney transplants, lame facial piercings.
The photon mass settles on the mascot’s wrist,
blue fingers fondling the object found – a strange bracelet –
its molestation leaving steamroller or moon rover tracks filled
with corn: then, finally, you melt and you know
what it’s like when the Japanese marshmallow cult
has dealt with you.    

But that’s nothing compared to the ‘transformative’ feeling
you get subsequent to nibbling warts on a sea serpent –
the feeling of feeling like your insides, a body bathed
in neon sabermetrics, a desert of eggwhite spinning
on a needle, coming apart at the edges and
hurling slivers of Amish newsprint and mildew.
When choreography is broken down into quanta,
its aim to depict lawnsprinkler madness,
that’s when you get true bile on a stick. You can’t say exactly
how you feel now that you’ve turned into
a freak who goes on roadtrips on post-apocalyptic Segways (robbed
from the security guard in your escape prior to the time
everyone sported scales or rusty radiator grills)
hallucinating toy-commercials, socializing (in your rags)
with campfire-side allegories. Or even if such things
as allegories still exist.

Monday, April 26, 2010

The Office

Keeping the bagpipe calculus so
pure and doing it masterly
on dial systems,

a communist labyrinth of
security-monitoring tracking
the Mars bar all the way to the Drunk Englishwoman’s

heart and pussy. 
Where above the switchboards
do you kite-fly your ash cloud?

The little ghost’s
outerwear is stretchy for 
Chun-Li lightning kicks and atheism;

the business phones’ gray corpse’s
smell that you also find
inhabiting the communal microwave

or on the anxiety-sweated
rotaries. Every chatter melted on touch-tones
into schmaltzy bureaucracy 

and company red tape sew together
all the cabbage patch kids’
personalities.

Hairy Eugene

Had Homo Erectus not had sex with Neanderthals – and
had rape not played a possible role – we’d
a) not have killed them, b) the bathtub claw
of each surviving gene
wouldn’t have dragged many of us down
into embarrassing behavior, and c)
we’d have all dressed like Boba Fett now.

People: if we don’t realize it’s hot
to use our brain, and that complex life is not
a yellow stingy thing but can figuratively be understood
without such creative auxiliaries as
cheese graters; if we don’t staunch sentimentalism over
the hybrid baby's cute twitch of mustache,
I swear to God, another war’d break out.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Wow Wow Wow Wow Wow

Wowed by the sudden loss of relevance
of my werewolf legs, the kind with the knee
kinked backwards, giving you huge loping steps –

slumped, dismally, at the restaurant table and
wowed by the waitress’s sickening abuse of power –
lightly salted: the oil leak I’m forced

and consent to eat, with 80s hair and vibrating
blinking brooch on wingtipped lapel, still very much slumped,
however, here, at the table. Dolorously.

And, yeah … feeling like I’ve been pushed down a spiral staircase,
a strange April fools victim of
the teleporting device landing me smack – some time prior –

in the middle of a karaoke contest: having stood
there with my werewolf legs trying not to stutter
or swallow the pufferfish mic. Ugh.

And that’s part of why I’m so down
now, I guess … and I only thank the teleporting
device that it had the humanity to at least

shoot me through the dried oatmeal ether
into this restaurant, here, where the waitress is
unkind and dragoons patrons into

doing things against their will, but people
who do things against their will willingly
still, in a manner of speaking, consent, no?

Give their consent?
Or am I sounding desperate? Have I managed
to swallow the slightly salted oilslick, though? Wow. That’s wowful.

It’s obvious this waitress has put Occam’s razor
to the standard pop show formula, the product –
i.e. a sudoku-inspired tampon – deriving from the fact,

perhaps, that she’s half Japanese, the code to a crude
combination padlock around my hairy ankles displaying in asterisks
on the LCD panel embedded in her chest. Which is … wow.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Bacteria Of The Red Light

I was really excited about this job interview.
Goddamn.
I didn’t know I’d start sending death threats
to the interviewer barely the day before the interview.
Subconsciously, the day I got the date for the interview,
I’d already begun thinking of ways
to boycott the company.
They sell products that protect your bacteria or something.
But protect this, motherfucker: my face
when it needs that transplant to prepare
for the interview! No doubt some mystery
is unwrapped: one’s soul when it escapes looks incredibly mysterious.
The underbones begin that R-Rated rap
routine and everything. One sees oneself portrayed by
a hot tranny levitating fake poop with one’s old,
‘inappropriate’ mannerisms and worries
and conversation skills – and it turns out
the fake poop is nothing but
those old beautiful qualities in What Would Jesus Do
sandals themselves.
These things are indeed incredibly mysterious.
But then the crocodile tears begin to flow:
they’re dressed in Spanx
and connected to dots
like the logic of mirrored shell-shaped furniture
designed for conjoined faces. The queer comfort
you draw, the second before your old face
and the new ‘interview face’ separate forever,
in Abstinence-Only sex ed
can never be a turn-on to hooker
bacteria, to whom my condom head
at the interview promises the only
sexy osmosis.

5 Common Emotions Experienced By Unhappy Cats

Lovely pressures in handcuffs
instead of loud sex that causes cops to bang
on your door seem, when I’m horny, when I’m
really disgusting and try to force myself to just be
sweet and lie about Internet porn and say how totally
werewolf-with-inner-conflicts I am … well, they seem
to bend my cat body in the litter box into
the shape of a cat who imitates a shy bladder.
One thing about cats: they don’t get shy bladders.
And when they do they’re only imitating them.
And when you see a cat imitating anything it’s meant
to be offensive. Cats pretending – pretending to be
rich businessmen, pretending to be food, technology – are always
offensive. Or the cat is pitying itself.
Its mind feels like this side of the avocado, decorated in
feathers and in the middle: a squatting panic button.
Cops did search my home not too long ago and found a dirndl.
I’m a registered sex offender, after all.
‘This thing is a tit-annihilatingly
ruthless toy that inspired dictatorship, hands that vibrate,
Precious Goo™ and South Park – a rich man slash fat smug cat
left in the oven overnight
in an experiment that led to a brain catastrophe:
he looked like a baby mutant with a fiery mane.’
The oven’s screen coated in swirling dust,
an exit route, augmented reality navigation display.
Limbs that convey motion.
Germs that burn on hot bodies.
Look how beautiful that aurora, baby.
What’s that? A cat pretending to be a germaphobe?

The World According To Sea Urchins

Dwarves equate flamboyance
with the body curve
charting sorcery all the way up
to the jellyfish in Hong Kong.
Molested children
look from the insane teenage girl
to psychology students
who got new teeth
to deduce eloquence in the really tall
immortal repo guy.
Blu ray
given new stilettos espouse ambitions to outwit
the healing device,
by dressing up as one
and getting new stilettos.
Then slow vacationing around the gas lamp –
and this is how it can see beauty.
The space transformer has a beautiful body.
The killer gives an unrealistic portrayal of the world.
I saw ‘THE THING’ and couldn’t make out any
true meaning in it at all.

Party Island

Sunspot perspiration
in the cannibal’s beard
is glittery. The salt crystals rimming
the Martini glass
are glittery. Dull finger in the glass.
Dull corpse
under the thatch roof with him
sloshing in the Martini glass about
the salt rim at the stir of a finger.

Certain limbs of the skeleton
are part of the witch’s broom.
Hardened by evisceration. Certain
Five Star hotels have rugs softened by evisceration.
It’s a boy: the plague’s stomach
is softened by birth. It’s a parrot.
The stomach is softened by the birth
of the most popular drink
on the party island.

In the grassy shade
of mental problems greater than zero –
raise the geek flag
greater than the greatest banana shot
out of the steam cannon.
The greatest sight are
the breasts on my ornithopter girlfriend
on
the USB stick in my suitcase.

Transformer 5

Pitting some insects in a fencing match,
you don’t need to put them in suits and can
forgo the gauze masks altogether –
their eyes already have that look
of suitors unflinchingly receiving a
stab in the eye with a pale, wispy beauty’s
silverware. Hate to say ‘I told you
so,’ but brain-repair often ties
you back to your authenticity.
So mea culpa and shit.
Watching your sperm compete in a long
streak of sunscreen, trailing a black shiny
ball all the way to your few standing
identical (multiple?) personalities, was not
the most un-you-like thing you could’ve done
in a bowling alley. In urinal-shaped underpants
of white and black Stormtrooper material –
thoughts going back to expired milk,
balanced on the welcome mat on
a small suburban house’s threshold,
in a bowling pin, you: taller than a building,
inside the dying bowling pin: a radioactive skeleton –
where’s your bicycle? Transformer
needed a bicycle. Transformer
became a bicycle, after trying ‘satellite
truck’ and ‘radio tower.’ Paddled
to the house as fast as Transformer could
but the milk expired en route anyways.
How to train your brain
to revert to a Rubik’s Cube fiddled
by different people with the most
forgiving view of you and not
jump up every time and shout:
‘I’ll have what that guy
over there with the napkin
peeling out of his collar
is having!’
Be original, Transformer. Be
yourself. Be so steady on your feet the
small green skeleton wouldn’t dance
and contaminate the milk and,
for God’s sake, turn the cap
straight on your head or don’t
wear one at all.

Liquor Store for A Narcissist

Recreational? Yes. Philosophy? No. Philosophy rape?
Philosophy rape in a study that reeks of gift shops?
Hell yes.

But not when driving a rat coffin limo for people wrapped
in green leather dengue fever – this sort of wallpaper
pulls down its trousers in small dingy bathrooms
and, in front of the misty mirror, engages in ugly
proton smashing. I don’t decorate my bondage-themed
nightclub this way: hobos and blossoms
claim bumper stickers are prophetic
and God is killed with air travel – that slice of movement
in which space invaders find this sort of thing tacky.

Who do I want to impress with my liquor store? With a foot
made of high-school history? At what point did I give the
go-ahead to office supplies to invade my booze rockets?
Ever got drunk on a ballpoint pen? You read that
funny banner hanging above the cashier’s head?
‘KILL AND BE IGNORED.’
That’s how I feel.

Two Of Each

ambidextrous and at large,
hence you’ve bitten the hand that taught you sorcery
with educational toys.
you unthankful little tit: they were wooden,
painted by a grandfather and cute like trains
with non-moving wheels.
housewives and tool guys smart
on propaganda and technically all
dead now, wiped out by symmetry.
blood reverberations in the Nazi gene pool;
hot commodity thanks to fearless
but pretty uninteresting farming,
kidney but not quite kidney-shaped BBQ pit,
police but not really policey swagger –
beaten to a
pulp by the headless hostile volcano.
Ever seen a volcano with T-Rex arms?
Well, if both my hands were equally deft I’d pause fifteen minutes
before doing anything – my extinction certain,
my frustration predetermined by strangulation
by blank perfection; the bat that didn’t know how to swerve.
Sorcery, hmm…
the worst alpha male
hesitates over a hairy spinal arc with one touch
out-touching the other.
3-D movie’s adenoidal used bullets
perforating a symmetrical cardboard target instead of one
lame-lobed cardboard target.
cardboard handyman: cardboard handyman:
swallow the two clever hammers
at breakfast
for fastest wisdom-release before they reach the altitude
of black silicon,
that sound your belly makes were it not
for the garage punks

KFC

Must be nice if you’re in a padded, big-butted costume and you’re
getting into those hillbilly vibes, walking past
the facial recognition camera that is take-away food’s
motherly eye. It starts out feeling like bee stings
only now it’s pure nudity. The pest
can see you’re wearing the sadness of a chicken. Paradoxical oversized
coupon rhyming cholesterol. Must be nice if
you’re a nice invention, if you’re
something nice that sinks in the ultraviolet ray, gristled concrete
anti-bodied by grizzly physics, cooled into bitchy bones, wings that smell
like a lazy person sluggish with industrial arms clawing at
mature offal. Your baby will be branded, a can-shaped excretion:
this shows nobody’s infallible. Get up: soap
can still be made out of bones, makeup out of shit!
KFC’s latest sandwich developed psychic powers. And everyone
thought it couldn’t get any greater.
Then it wrote about itself. And the world saw something terrifying:
the anatomy of a duck-face.
See, the burger was a chicken in its underworld. From its sealed suit –
from its claw-spangled rear, its two chins – dropped this gross, genetically
poisoned thread and into its breather tube
flowed such sinister Mc-clown-speak. Something down there
in the dark, something with crusty flu in its mouth – well, it was
preparatory to the mutant tantrum.
I used to be a bank clerk who believed in ghosts – I was
my own person. Now my beliefs are fucked by legumes.

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