Saturday, August 28, 2010

Will Be Back In Three Years To Declare War

hang with me, passive-aggressive alien arm – help me undermine the antibiotic in your deceptively mild-mannered gesticulation

the devil is under attack and it’s because of sheer intolerance that in turn causes the horny villagers nearby to gesticulate like nerdy, snitchy parking meters to inattentive, drunk nazi traffic wardens

grapes and bananas and anis seeds in the bike basket, a sex doll made of rice all squashed together by the villagers to make a killer for the antibiotic

kill the odd cocky member of the otherwise tranquil and peaceful and so-humble-they’ve-got-polio village folk, so peaceful, hating abrupt movements, loud bangs, thunder shaped like android arteries, technical problems in their robots are not sexy to them, i’ll have you know – the way the leg flops, etc

we’re not sexy today, are we? villagers tell their defective humanoid machines
who take the insults like champs, usually

but in the weeks following gradually sink into the hollow depression of a busker’s tin
what the villagers call, merely, ‘the sulks’

sir aldous fucking huxley never said that when a robot flees its village in a dandyish fit of auto-ostracism it looks like a breakup between a lego boy and a lego girl but look at the spike in the amount of emergency room visits – look at the increased usage of time machines why don’t you

all that blasting off to more ideal times (the ideal time is the only time that can fly backwards or hover still in the air – or abruptly shoot forward)

[in time]

check out the shocking decrease in holes on the village’s 2x2 inch golf course – all indicators of the ‘hurt’

everybody knows the ‘hurt’ – that loud cat noise falling wrong-side-up with ceramic vertebrae on township granite

no matter what it’s caused by

Friday, August 27, 2010

The Integrity Of Hugs

the hug that
wears a cow skull

refuses to pay
for things and
to play the complicated
dice and play money

game of wife swap
deaf to survival tips
in its luminous birth

refuses to relinquish
the squashed, flattened
sandwich trapped
between its many

dimensions

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Headache In The Wrong Museum

a mind shaped like frozen broccoli has been put in the museum of headaches. the only actual mind that is featured in the museum – for the rest of the inventory consists merely of pictures and paintings and postcards of faces gurning in agony. one item in the museum has been criticized by patrons for being entirely ill-fitting to the collection: it is said that this man doesn’t have a headache at all, but is merely pulling his face in agony because he is cussing at himself. the smell of burning flesh is discerned by many around this video installation in the museum of the man cussing at himself. one sees the head, sparse hair, flat nose, thick lips, pained chin, pained brow, and one hears the cussing but there’s no evidence at all that the man even has a headache. all you smell is burning flesh. why – many patrons ask – is this installation even at the museum of headaches?

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Aneutrotic Romance

‘it is time you see how the elements of a nightmare can be used to make a d.i.y. superhero costume, son. leftover planks and nails and things can be used to make a swanky d.i.y. chicken coop.’

try to keep an eye on a smoking gun for 75 years. it takes a fur fly 75 years to fly through a forest of enlightened fur, then be the burst of gamma ray’s steamy exit from an ice cube. they work together like a family – they’re a team of veritable engineers helping overcome structural difficulties in the strangest digitized battle. they’re a family that raises classic cattle together, selling collectibles to raise funds for the deletion of scenes from the epic 3-d flop of the folk hero’s irreverent, jane fonda-esque workout. helping out at, and smuggling suspicious writhing bundles in rollable trolleys twice a week from, the terror baby institute. teaching the ramadan vampire the smarter, less wooden ways of eating an intelligent cookie. raising buzzing hell.

wanting their prey to look and sound like shit as the sag of insect bodies settles on it. strap on a good grenade with waterproof mascara so you can’t see its explosion. sweet marijuana farmers, back on earth after hearing the computer has died. back in the universe to resurrect the multipurpose big bang theory from the parking lot. i have a piano – to soothe the prostatic heartbreak. i don’t even have to feather-pluck the prostatic brussels sprout, with farm equipment automated like the greatest random genius/curiosity that can paint winter nudes while peeling a banana while tossing a coin into the zombie fundraiser. greatest curiosity! random genius! let’s hear ’em!

the clanking machinery of the 75 years that passed after she replied yes to the boy insect’s question of will you be my darling fur fly in aneutrotic romance? 75 after she replied yes to his question of will you be my darling fur fly in aneutrotic romance, the young runt, a year her junior, not yet inducted into the forest of motionsickness, asked the question: ‘will you be my darling fur fly in aneutrotic romance?’

she’d gone down the spiral of death and when reaching the tip, she burst out wearing a cardboard cone hat and such jeans the young runt, now 76 years her junior, would not have believed.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

When A Rolemodel Goes To Shit

this is how I die [said in the voice of a young black girl at the end of a coke commercial whose editorial techniques were lifted directly from inspirational pre-apocalyptic films. or perhaps pre-apocalyptic films lifted editorial techniques straight from a coke advertisement].

the last thing michael ballsack heard before he died was: ‘look out for that truck!’ he would have preferred to be assassinated because a person with his job description suddenly shoots to fame after getting assassinated. he was the positive role model who was easiest picked up on satellites after dark, because he emitted satellite food. that’s just a colloquial term for stuff satellites like picking up. and which certain humans emit. positive role models in particular.

his wish of getting assassinated was not granted, in other words, and gazing through a crystal ball in another life at his memory diminishing in notoriety as a result of this was so fucking sad, he almost died. but he couldn’t. because he was in this other world now, and here people didn’t have the choice of dying.

so he was screwed.

plus, he’s a junkie in this other life. because here heroin is not illegal and you can buy it cheap at drug stores.

so he was screwed.

a positive role model was not meant to be a junkie. but here in this afterlife the concept of ‘positive role model’ didn’t exist. if it did, it would’ve been frowned upon. positive role models weren’t liked by junkies.

so he was screwed.

satellites were not to be had in this after life, either – so no mechanical device orbiting this afterlife saw him. no matter how much satellite food his glands excreted. which, incidentally, they still did.

he was so, so screwed.

michael ballsack was on the edge of this afterlife always because he wanted out. it did have an edge. and earth was divided from it by a chasm that was only a meter wide.  

Saturday, August 7, 2010

New Rubik's Cube

it looks like a kind of game, the position assumed by the rectangular friend and the samoosa when they mate. sort of like a rubik’s cube but technically impossible to make all the sides align, which is the object of the game. there have been triangular planets spotted from the observation hub in amsterdam. cynics have ascribed this phenomenon to the triangular lenses through which they’ve been looked at. on the opposite side of the galaxy from planet alkd894r84, a rectangular planet has been spotted. a crew from earth flew there to ascertain the finding. they immediately blamed the rectangular lens through which the planet has been spotted – but that didn’t detract from the interesting phenomenon which occurred. if you viewed the triangular planet from earth and the rectangular planet from planet alkd894r84 at the same time, all their sides aligned!

the hybrid plant people from planet alkd894r84 claimed victory of what they called in the voices of leaves growing on vines the ‘contest between earth and planet alkd894r84 of who could crack the samoosa fuck first.’ to get an idea of what the plant people on planet alkd894r84 looked like, picture an art deco pot plant with a poison ivy growing out of it and juggling in its ungainly flagella the head of margaret thatcher. picture such a creature also shedding its leaves every three hours in margaret thatcher’s voice.

picture such a creature also rather poisonous to the touch.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Normal service will continue shortly

Homer Simpson in a popup book wants to be my friend, although he hasn’t fallen into a sinkhole or is not standing in a spill deemed the worst of its kind. Or he wants protection from the person on the other page: Alice Cooper, with the veil of meat exhibition ripped off him. His page looks like a classroom presentation (a little Bart popup in the background) while Alice’s looks very industrialized – metal plows, robotic arms, a huge tin funnel with a right-angled spigot. Thing is, I don’t know how to protect him:

I’ve come across, in my ramble through the towering pages, some impromptu backbones but when I use them, or try to use them, they seem missing. I see the different side of the symbolic gesture – which closing doors do you love? Which poor actor stands behind them? What does a pustule turned into a hat try to tell you about itself? And what is it good for? It makes you talk like a demon, and shows you how with enough banter you can blackmail a villain like Alice Cooper.

But first there’s the 3-D cardboard concourse to navigate…

With a beer bottle I skewed the green light in order to drive over beach goers, crushing mere ankles and a little school of prawn lecturers cuddling on towels reimaged with ice-cream truck motifs. Then on for some platonic invigoration mingling with characters on pages 5 – 7 in the body-armor of a love gadget. Yes and but … before knowing it I’m actually already competing for a kidney donation among crazy, bean-shaped commuters in the viaduct margins of page 7 throwing their faux kidney bodies into the sea. Smooth-playing here is peremptory overkill, so willing everybody – everybody but Homer and the villainous Alice – in this book is to be helped. The hydraulic that could overturn mountainous pages 7 through 13 – it is perhaps the only thing here craving smoothness, lubrication or whatever…

How to be the pustulent host, the great writer, architect, dog, god, that loves his guests and nevertheless sits still during his forgettable cameo in his own kitchen … In other words how to make the art of deceptive marketing … I don’t know …

work?

Your average automated pop-up book can really fuck with your mind. But one containing the Simpson family, drawn wrongly and reimaged with all the love of a free haircut, sparks disruptions in the very soul of the brain: that femora with the two bums at either end stuck through the septums of headhunters. A disease-outbreak in rough transit defines this read, a King Kong-smashed rotorcraft - that whirring sound when it closes. A lanced bug: something that happens to you during the following hours' sleep.   

Normal service will continue shortly.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

I Hate Ukuleles

OK … shit suddenly has gotten
pretty eerie. In case anything happens
to me, Marvin, and you discover
the tambourine and you need to
make a run for it, please, for God’s sake,

do not wear your fat suit: you will
not fit through the tambourine!
Oh my darling Marvin. You’re
hideously thin and sparse of hair and
beard, and gaunt, and hollow-eyed;
and I think you to be the most repugnant
creature in the universe.

But you’re the only person and thing
I’m not responsible for bringing into
this world – God knows how you’ve
ended up here – so I know, being
the only person/thing who’s on my side,
you’ll follow my advice and ding this thing
then run for the cough syrup in which
our cauterized selves heal; feel what it’s like

to be a particle spitting from the gash
in the temporal lung like a cork
traveling so fast it stretches longer before
wringing from the ukulele a sound to be
embarrassed by through at least six tenement
walls.

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