Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Before The Electron

Before the electron, there
was Vin Diesel. And a
hydroelectric plant he’d
converted into a studio
apartment.

He didn’t shock himself
in carpeted department stores
on metal clothing racks.
And his willpower wasn’t
made of electrons but of
a helpful machine that
was ignorant of electrons
but compromised by transforming
Vin’s volition into normal
humdrum actions like walking
and talking and lifting his arm
and scratching his ass
and waving to an acquaintance
across the street through
the power of its own will –

which, in turn, was fueled
by poetry about photosynthesis.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

Scotch Tape Horror

A T-Rex is singing operatically on the horizon,
the leash around its neck slowly shrinking
causing him to sing shriller, and sillier –
on the musical horizon where
radio vomit bubbles up around his feet.

The coastline where the connoisseurs have been
buried whips back the shadow wrapped in Scotch tape.
Piggybacking an oxygen tank, the sticky void shouts:
‘I can’t breathe in this shit!’ In my small room
above my parents’ garage I lie on my bed watching
civilization strangle its audience: you have to pay
if you want to watch the T-Rex perform but my piggybank
is fairly attractive when bright and full, a blinding trapdoor
sometimes opens in its pale belly-haze
when rubbed opalescent. Sure, I can pay.

I realize we are making giants, our portable antelope
heads are kept on a shorter leash, and we pay
the troll at the gate even though Disneyland
impregnated a crackhead. We entered and exited
in the form of a belly ring that looked like
an intestine; we were an intestine when we finally
stood up from the beach at Underwear Sands –
a scorched dried shriveled corkscrew of a worm. We
couldn’t shit! Rub the piggy’s pale blue milky haze!
Propaganda poster on the bathroom wall helps
alleviate constipation because you want
to impress that thing. Oh, we were a fringe horror;
our coast stretched all around your pretty head, with
waves lapping at our feet and the flashy gaudy
bumper-sticker overload on our stuffed dinosaurs.
The ideal civilization made some horrible life choices.
That is why it has so rabidly been turned loose
on us.

Friday, July 16, 2010

It Is Easier To Kill A Unicorn After A Line Of Coke

these are the things you’ve shot   you like being employed again   it is great   but these are the things you’ve shot   spiders androids subways intestines topless bars bras unicorns   but I’m running ahead of myself: first, shoot the spider’s wing for the paranoid billionaire before you call your career hot enough for him   you want her flightless   but she doesn’t fly   spiders don’t fly   and plus, it’s male   confrontations like these every tenth word feature the word ‘spreadsheet!’   second, capture the android’s breath before taking its life – it is valuable to your boss   you work for him and it’s amazing   you’re living in a cgi subway and you’re late always   you have extended lunches   now, crawl   crawl! crawl, bloody milkshake that you are   foam on tile doesn’t work but it’s amazing growing sticky on cgi rails   learn the internal crawl which is a valuable organ to your boss   headless corporate shootout: stationery industry on slippery slidey blotter   atomic bomb eraserhead   that destruction on the desk?   you didn’t kill it properly   its diet on blood and strawberry saved it   the unicorn did that you didn’t drown it when you were explicitly ordered to drown it   never heard such a lame excuse in my life: chances are you’re made of reflection and your mirror leaks   get out of my fancy bathroom where a solemn black man stands handing out towels and polishing shoes and listening to you snorting coke!   action figure!   success!   metrosexual toenails!   nail in the plastic coffin of your blister packaging   vanity!   they brought out a toy version of you and it is great   he listens to it telling jokes (respectively the black dude and the toy version of you – black dude listens, toy tells jokes)   they are lame   i.e. the jokes are lame   do you feel bad that a working man suffers because of them?   skyrocketing life is sprayed on the spectacles of the amazing man leaning backward in his chair sleeping with a paper stuck behind his spectacles waving above his forehead snoring with head tilted back mouth agape that tiny wiggling thing in back of mouth dry and crusty and not attractive and of course the paper   your boss   he/she/it/they/me   aids donor sleeping on the job

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Sock Of War

Here we have, indisputably,
Sock Of War. What it’s doing: 
harnessing the headlamps, a
climate predator which sinks
fire. But it’s: the water drop heart of
the bullet, overdosing on
prepping. Dressed in
a band T-shirt then
sent to a peppy school.
Your birthday party
was a big skeptical big ass
with slap-on skin and
slap-on make-up,
converted my freakish number
to white captivity.
Then: sent to jail. Sock of war.
Dragon kite watching
the earth sink
behavior’s police: a matchstick
force sunk
dwarfing existence to a size
smaller than the human body.

Many years later: oxygen
hides and spools and turd-floats
in his wrinkles.
Living in a luxury house
fit only for a porn
movie. Tired. Even changed
his bloody handwriting. Combat
garbage or: garbage used
in combat or: garbage IS
combat. Choices
choices oh God – sexy wombat
milks traffic cops what should
I DOOOOOOO…
Experimental kneecap gets
in the way, acrobatics an
albino in the headlamps’
palest chalk on whose
line we behave.   
Dies.
(Some years later.)

Saturday, July 10, 2010

String Theory

I put the upholstery foam into the waffle maker.
I put the bandages around the waffle maker.
I’m talking about a new emotional system.
I’m talking about pixel tears.
They’ll flow from the waffleplex you‘re grafting and if you’re wondering: Why bandages? It’s because emotions are things that heal.
One sour goatspurt and your emotions – say you have two emotions –
eclipse the light in you, it’s like they’re shrinking but also growing bigger.
They block out the light.
They’re two conjoined grime particles. 

Furthermore, you’re keeping every elevator you enter these days smelling good.
If you’re sick, say with leukemia, you keep your leukemia from sagging in places. Because you’re the captain, you go, Captain’s log:
‘Went to a park.
‘It was gashed right through from fence to fence.
‘Why, I sewed it right up!’

Captain’s log: ‘In a way I’m fixing a broken couch. Hurrah!!’
The foam comes from a broken couch, after all.
The rest you threw away.
The upholstery you took and put into the waffle machine.
But meanwhile the couch’s carcass is pest-free because its emotions are put
to good use.

Failed Species – the pilot of the patchwork quotidian – deals in junk.
Give us a valve, a valve you don’t use anymore, Failed Species can screw it in and, pressing its little robot clitoris, bring the ghost out of the shell.
He made a tool that turns a sneeze into a hyperbole – i.e. Beautiful junk that will change your life into something new with each sneeze. It will leave you with blue crackles of wonderment!’
It was a piece of discarded flint. It twirled in the vortex of the sneeze.
In one episode Wonder Woman sat down with The Failed Species;
he gave her a Facebook virtual gift (more on that later). OK, it was a piece of ratty flint tied and knotted into the form and consistency of a burger.
She took that, unraveled it, tied it to his neck. Check this:
That night when he sleepwalked and went out to go hunt deer? The flint yanked him back over a distance of three miles and he bounced back AND HE BOUNCED THREE TIMES ON THE FLOOR INTO BED BOUNCED THREE TIMES AND FELL ASLEEP.
Everything’s made of string.
Everything can be tied with a piece of string.

Got broken tears? Here’s a good computer program that sorts, dusts, and puts special mosaic cement between their pixels.
Got a major eclipse on your hands? Call in the lynch mob: see Dexter leading them with scythes into the shadow.
It’s like a curtain tearing from the top down, forming a thousand bright triangular little baseball flags.
‘I love you,’ fell from the Failed Specie’s lips.
It literally fell.
Wonder Woman did something eye-popping: she made his eyes pop.
How?
She undressed.
No need for waffle machines on that score. In typical give the pinky and take the hand fashion, he gave her a stripper pole and bugged it –
she knew it was bugged and when she practiced on it, when he wasn’t watching but was listening in the other room, she whispered stuff to the pole. Stuff that made the pole nearly knot back upon itself.
He lay in the next room with an O-expression.

A Happy Meal asteroid flits through space, enters the atmosphere, and Lady Gaga catches it with her mouth.
Who said some objects needed to be turned into something useful?
An asteroid can already be a Happy Meal.
A glitch can even be meant to be a glitch.
The world should stop going by the stupid philosophy that the world is made of Failed Species and therefore everything’s got to be fixed.
A jackhammer’s fantasies radiate from the bulb, so when it lights up my heart throbs – du-du-du-dududududududdududu.
This is a HEALTHY fucking heart.
The Failed Species wanders around in IKEA, down in the warehouse with his slip. He’s been down there for three days.
He hasn’t eaten.
He hasn’t drunk anything.
His only digestive feat so far is that he’s taken a shit in two different places. IKEA is the world unfailed. You don’t have to assemble anything it sells you. Nothing in this dungeon demands assembling.
Who’s your philosopher now?
Now he hears the messages Wonder Woman kept murmuring to the pole while she practiced and which the pole, via the bug, relayed to him in the next room.
It’s a sweet message.
By God it inspires him.
It keeps him alive.
But really, he should have kept that virtual Burger he’d given her on Facebook.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

This Relationship

this relationship is so beautiful, it has no anti-matter,
the thing about the universe is that its antimatter
isn’t understandable, therefore this relationship will live
forever, reflect in no mirror, it will stand on a rainbow’s
one leg. hey, and on top we can build a treehouse and
put your and my gross droid up there, animal remains
or those adorable decorations. this belt-buckle supernova
I have decided will be placed on the wonky flotilla,
which will be pushed out gently into the middle of
the lake, knickers replayed in its wake, a song, rainbow genitals,
steroid pubes, we’ll watch the algae pull down the trajectories
of it sparks. my neighbor – who lives on an insane farm –
has a tractor that pulls protons, a beast, a brawny
fucker whose tires write obituaries, and this dirty-minded
thing we’ll start and ride by pulling faces at it – a sea
serpent lives in its carburetor and this thing’s
muy sensitive, takes umbrage at the merest dirty
look, we will face it with a cover story about its scrawny legs
in the Village Gazette: its sells at the same rate as the
sales of heroes, news will spread quickly that there’s no end
to the ridicule its demise will face, it really has no choice
but to – purt-purt – take us to where – runt-runt – we want
to go, which is toward victory.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Novel Extract

Mattie said his father used this technique to yank loose teeth out of his mouth when he was a child. Mattie would sit on the bed some two meters from the door, to which the rope was tied, and his father would count three and then slam the door, ripping what felt like a whole wad of flesh out of his mouth – for, indeed, sometimes the tooth wasn’t properly loose or Mattie would wince before the door was slammed and so turned his head, aligning other teeth with the one about to be yanked out, and the loose tooth would plow through several neighboring teeth on its trajectory to the door pane, which (i.e. the door pane) had suddenly created this immense gravity that only had a hold on the one loose little tooth, which now came flying like a bat out of hell out of his mouth, and though small, was empowered with all this gravity that dragged, sometimes, some of Mattie’s other teeth out with it, and the whole event would be tantamount to some bloody, chunky supernova and often there’d be blood spatter on the door and door pane and wall as well, and Mattie’s mother and little sister would swoon before the door’s hollow echo down the hall had even died down.

Friday, July 2, 2010

French Maid Who Became Powerful After Death

Any second now, I’ll put on my special glasses that along their thick frames say ‘Pew Pew Pew’ – for when the pollinator comes flying over my q-tip collection. All color except street halogen must be daubed out to see my white-wigged nation fill the City. Wearing them, I will not see what in actual fact is there: a nest of savage gape-beak cheeping, cheeks cotton-stuffed, bellies taxidermied with wet bread and feet with the roots of trees and Internet veins.

Wearing these special glasses, I will feed across the sun’s pessimistic Uzi barrel, will only sleep when my pajamas decide it’s time to sleep, it’s a rule anyway – but I think their fibers will be laid to rest on the streets tonight and these glasses that say Pew Pew Pew along the side – formerly worn by
the Acupuncturist, the maid turned Obiwan-style god who hated my collection and always popped their fertile zits then flushed them down the toilet – now finally fired at age seventy to the accompaniment of a bedbug’s spinal crack, a blasting, invasive sound – will see offal competing against each other because of what she did:

instead of death, Futurama will be filled with high-tech toilets in the form of spacecrafts and sleek white lounge chairs. Flush away my q-tips, she will? She gave me her glasses because it was ugly, she said: the city’s glow when the Shape flew over and scattered its parachutes. When she pricked the streetlights with needles she said afterward she had a migraine made of pornos wrapped in what amounted to the flat wooden inflammation’s tablecloth: i.e. a frilly apron.

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