Friday, October 29, 2010

PUB SURGERY

Ready for my punch in the face now, so
rally round the out of season disgusting work of
this snub nose. The Pokémon tumor will have to put
up with me for a while – if only I can find the key
to the pub where the drunk physician once did
the xenomorphic facehugger circumcision. It was
on the bar counter and the rate was abominably low,
as the fascination was winding down
below peaks of orbital hangover, patrons
in the hot Tron glue of intoxication dragging
themselves glutinously through their individual
mouse mazes, a few disquieted taste buds still cracking
knuckles round the partly empty peanut bowls.

Just a meter away was the pervert chemical unknown.
The flamingo mercurial spit of cayenne arcing over
the facehugger, the sasquatch resuscitator freezing over
Steven Hawking’s penis. Flame-thrower subtle.
The Goonies unbefriended me on altruism’s reflective surfaces;
I realize not a physician in the land – neither one found
nude on treehouse shoulders nor one adept at Pythagorean
judo – can stop the spillage of this unhinged vending machine,
can smuggle this suspicious package through trenches
imperiled by the curse of the pogo stick. An old-school shark’s
traveling exhibition veils its secret life
as a starving 8-bit Tamagochi waif nodding on
a dream pushing a strange scent.

Spreading it like pasta over cement the technician
recalls an anecdote about a tumor who stole
his scissors and scissored across the bar counter
and straight on out through the door
like a man on long legs in a bowler hat. Spreading,
spreading, he says he won’t make that mistake
ever again.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

HONK

a bundle of leading ladies
forces of nature in cocaine dresses
the devil’s playground hired for
dog walking championship
who was it that claimed reality show pandemic
came suspiciously on heels
of alien pea invasion?

librarian ghost story
a relentless summer station
lack of sleep landscape
filled with Pop-Eye honking
dreaming on his bent cane Charlie Chaplin
the rat race protagonist
Timmi La Forge country club
where no cameras may upload
to the supercomputer cheeseburger

robo singer held up at police station
its algae thumbprint restores logbook’s sanity
accident commentator inadvertently promotes damage
streetwear bear prostitution lend
accessories to Back to the Future motel fetish
there’s something about ultrasound wet twist
sound of fudge whale nurse’s ankle injury

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

WASH THIS SPACE - ANOTHER MUTATION

in video form physical flaws wear
jackets causing a commotion
waving things around:

fantasy tonic resting tenderly
in a porcelain lap

you can fly from the fifteenth story
balcony with a hotel painting
for wings if you have no shame

retractable blade inflatable,
instructionless bleeding
fingers: lizard favors wrapped in HIV plastic


today the toilet paper dungeon will be lined
for parkour tricks with
the right to decline magically infringed

assembly of
grumbling mind control:
the ritual

of
lukewarm
luxury goods’
brain-machine interface

the motor cortex lord’s ducks
are talking yet again about

getting out of the insular t-shirt

it’s definitely fortunate that

men’s cologne stops
generations of worry
in homeless people’s
forbidding underwear 

quick and painless,
containing a sheet of lies
the scanner also
caught a section of the radio
station’s toe

a standard office scanner
in the bathroom
sending images of lies
straight to the toilet

do only giants – physically
disproportionally tall men and
women – commit
suicide?

shadow of unusually
square jaw
superimposed
on world of

blissfully productive
puny but 
familiar images

threatened bomb defuser
has a price:
very cheap, covered in
bandages, blows in

his face always (i.e. the bomb does),
each part blown away
is replaced by a robotic
gripper making him

gradually more expensive
(he will soon be just as
unaffordable as the real robot
machines employed to
defuse bombs, you watch) 

the
radio station
states that after the commercials
it will
initiate a state-wide seizure
of audience nervous systems

paralyzed
instructable
victim of spaghetti
entanglement – how cleverly

do you work your
pliers &
wrenches?

i will instruct you in
return for a blowjob with a monkey
wrench

invoice to cheap bomb defuser:
thanks for uniquely and reliably responding to
that force that stole
a million mandibles 

electrodes hammered through ears
surveillance system
mind reading breathtaking

water closet
duck itinerary
graffiti

Sunday, October 24, 2010

BREATHING FIRE

hey pill popper:
why worry about borders or the jokes you’re not in on – the transparent nanospheres uniting to form a sense of isolation so stiff as to actually be holier than kevlar?

with the anti-horror disco activist talking shit about velcro shoes on display in dark decadent department store cages
with impact body armor forming around and validating the spooky dancing silhouettes of your agreements dancing and flickering across the yellow pigskin department store carpet

each time spring cleaning your caravan affects the climate you and the CREW stand before the ratty christmas calendar in 3D glasses holding chins, freaked out of your minds but the grave robber to your right and the tourette’s-juggling ethiopian bench press spotter to your left see the rectangular pits in cheap paper they see it in a typical EVERYDAY SENSE:

it’s a vacancy left by the miniskirt running for the train, the infectious spreading nullity of the boring test driver’s soliloquy in the drag car racing across the saltpans talking indentations of sultry death into the consciousness of the pneumatic vinyl monster hanging from the rearview mirror

infections can turn the black rectangular workplaces of both the wiry bench press spotter and the harrumphing grave robber into killer parking lots that smell like pirate ships and the enigmatic healing properties of torture ignored by the captain’s parrot, the two thin skidmarks of a wheelchair across the white marking presenting a scene of such pathos as to sink a thousand shopping trolleys  

rock paper scissors shaking themselves dry with incredible dance moves
the pure heart’s black eye and bloody nose first wallow self-pityingly in several different washing basins – ‘No, this one isn’t good; no give me that one, let’s try that one etc.’ – then suddenly the hand of fate thrusts down through the ceiling and toilets the lot

the world’s largest, most beautiful magnet is stuck to my fridge door and one night as i came down to smother my midnight munchies with all the crap in my fridge it said to me: it’s so good to see my No1 Undesirable again
then i was suddenly squashed against the fridge
i was squashed into my constituents particles by the amazing blinding allure of the fridge magnet

and i do appreciated life as a fireside inhalation
even though my friends are such nasty bloodsuckers they couldn’t help a fellow with poor eyesight at the racetrack by at least warming the butter under the incessant midnight trampling of hooves on his skull

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. 

Sunday, October 17, 2010

AS IF

there would be these purrs
as if of food trucks carrying
the wheel of death
betty white is still strapped to
it screaming as though at a
hilarious joke blemish-free
yet picket-fenced with silver
blades a cloth draped over
her in the back of the truck
this purr as if of the liquored
heart of a cloud object a black
devil’s crunching hip socket
the fuzzy procrastination at
the core of the underdog’s pillow

for the moment we all saw
steven tyler’s bottom lip covered
in thumb tacks an expression as
if raped in jail stepping down
from the solar expressway and
other life-threatening dangers
lashed together

the cigar of the talent agency’s
round bottom puffing snapshots
of trauma a kardashian home-coming
dance plaguing his knees viscera
with the suffocation as if of
a fridge

but this knife-thrower is a mega-
celebrity in his own right: you
hear only the lonely spirally
laments of whale song when
he hangs up the phone to your
birthday party requests you’ve
gone from a respectable father
who wants to seem cool by
inviting him to a dotard burping
natural gas with a lighter in
front of his mouth for
the rest of the afternoon –

and then your stupid rain dance
calling down a grim white sheet
from heaven with an oily fringe
and dappled here and there as if with
a few drops of blood

Saturday, October 16, 2010

THE COOLEST CENTRIFUGE IN THE WORLD

each pebble prowled, the tesla tiger enclosure
illuminated their fur, their cancer either abated
on magnetic video tapes

or spread out dappling the dollhouse sky

heat stroke should be somewhat closer to the fake sunflower
standing wide-legged on the desert dune seeing so far

but nothing

praying captive, reassurance via letter to the washing machine:
that stoic, somnolent, churning captive of a pack of
wolves, cool spewing from tooth imprints,

clean shorts

i am happy with this birth, a vulgar bike seat
and so many scarless tracks on love
stolen to decompose

all stereotypical brain surgery laser training disease regenerative –
why charged with murder when you’re so ready to
eat red?

graft of weird baggage weight, niggling crucifix erase
silver disappearance, the sky unzipped

i think that is why the most likeable member of the jetsons porn crew is the boring policeman, as all retro futurism is about
tolerating your neighbor

its yellow heart loved where it hung

conserving juice disappearing
toilet paper, seating rinderpest

digitally cut through bone,
the improbability drive planted the charismatic rapper in a
piano’s body

give him a fair chance, the opportunity to inspire
sweating fruity pebbles in the coolest centrifuge in the world

cuddled in fetishes, bomb hoaxes resting on the cleverest gyroscopes

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

BALANCING A TOMATO ON YOUR HEAD

sanity: balling it up
putting it in: a microwave oven
it’s motion and texture:
shimmering
during my
lunch break: perhaps i shall inspect the shipwreck
my last glimpse of it:
not good
what it looked like:
a shipwreck
what it tried leaping over
before splatting: sin

what will be excavated next sunday:
a tomato
bends that way
when pressed
slightly on the left temple
by a forensic hypnotist
with a shrill goatee
drooly eyes &
halitosis:
panty raid

hymn to:
scaring the crap out of
earthquakes
cuts off her:
left
pinky
crisis: got in the way of masturbation 
symptom: got in the way of masturbation
prognosis: [sic] earthquake-proof?

there’s life on: nowhere 
most dangerous:
total control of
tic-burning festival &
marmite matinee

culling bugles:
futile quest
missing out
on: years of wisdom
fastest: fucking car, man

matchmaker:
louche
elixir:
gonna be dumb
melodramatic:
duct tape
medley
swing:
portion of
your god

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

I READ NEWSPAPER IN THE GYM

I coughed that last time, remember?
And went non-stick in the gym – I
hated the place first time I laid eyes
on it; built a self-teaching machine
from all the barbells –

went manual in the medicine ball corset
because I couldn’t trust it handing my
head and shoulders back after submerging
in the wet newspaper of shed cells.

Because a cough is a sea mine
with corks skewered by the spines.
Roll it across a wad of bubblegum –
it rolls unimpeded, like a ghost’s breath
steamrolled through bread crumbs.

Fever’s automation was disabled.
Suddenly it became a plume; like, suddenly
there was a plume walking my glands
like roadkill on a fucking leash.
Blocked on electronic spinal cord;
grappling with piercings in the blood.

HOW WE SEE BEASTS THAT AREN’T THERE

In river towns, they balance sludge.
Then there’s this other innovation: scissors
subdividing floods, a kind of folksy miner’s trick
imitated by seamstresses working on gold tables
and snipping cloth all the way till they strike
gold, and all the kids swap necklaces, and the odd
number hears it: the relevant boo.

Always some poor little sucker loses out...

All the snickers drowned after dark.
I understood that chimeras are designed
to keep beasts retinal, to keep them 
plausibly undulating below the water’s skin,
though some biologist will always try
to wake the data again.

A SHIELD THAT DOUBLES AS A CAR

wrapping bad apples in surgical drapes
they won’t stop knocking the retro reflector

in which my head and gait and comportment
and all my riches furiously scuttle about

to catch that chirpy voiced aesthetic
to jump into the stationary woman

dissolving bone marrow standing near the
friskiest prognosis, synchronizing debris

to rest their toothpaste

get hit by your street smarts – your wall-sniffing canister

‘thanks doctor-society-loves-you-its-in-their-graffiti-ribs
‘quack-quack’

the importance of using blanket craft:
ambivalence is my ninja star
fuzz in teeth my collision

you should see when mudscreen blocks time!

curious about your shooting eating recycling nancy

curry runs straight through the light-concentration
i was going to go as a plastic band
now i’m going as diarrhea

working this time!
it
is
working this time!
the little bug on the geared rotor!

dropped friends off
where the yoga position crashed
and felt calm and black and white driving home

when that – i.e. zero decision-making acumen –
and the thrrp thrrp
of flames on the celebration of corduroy pants
usually add to the bunion’s woes

Monday, October 4, 2010

GREATER THAN GATSBY

Beauty travel involves troubled pathways.
I caught its innovator, who said to me:
‘Meet my desperation.’ 

On the overpass of overweight,
in the wind of the fan of reckless appendages,
under the shower of lolling pores,
just lounging around in organized clotting.

I enjoyed playing the cut off leg, and getting
pwned by my dream job – holding out for misery,
I guess, my prank on the genius who came up with
the model of that perfect laudable delectable
bedside table which IN FACT may surpass Gatsby –
master of old sneakers, deliverer of fans
to their handsomer richer flirtier selves,

architect of their declining interest in
him, screwer of the banana smoothie.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

THE ARK, I THINK POROUSLY

The ark is not a credible vessel, but it
was spotted, a paradoxical stratospheric
dungeon boat. Though it rocked microbes better
than livestock, it was also the last carousel,
sandwiched between the role of fun fabricant
and particle streamer.

Who knows how employee training was meant
to go down, or how the thing lost its sight so that
road markings could exist unimpeded?

It was onboard this vessel that Kellogg’s
made bears safer, where indiscretions
played in a fountain leaking from the
dry-cleaning – what some people say about it

rivals gull gore others see from their hotel
beds, saw it returning to an oral Paris
and disgorging experimental sounds in death.
They climbed aboard the mere thought of

the apartment complex’s beetroot rugs.
He owes a stuntman an explanation, and meat –
he could give it in a tisket, in a building-sized basket –
but what happened to the great towering waves
definitely contained irony, and cheapened the bathtub
in which he got cynically drunk.

And news about his layoff for asserting morgue brain
for entertainment and for making frivolous
komodo dragons and monkey skateboards
survived hyperbole and entered a fugue
state with the ocean level. 

An experience of a lifetime passes by – gets
off with obsolescence-happy meat and straw
and smelly pesticides and looking forward, drawn,
non-existent oars working harder than guerilla gardening.

Friday, October 1, 2010

TRON

parody of
blank canvass

plotting of
aromatic
flood

drum up
deviation

birthday acorns
or
expansive
death device?

model pose
tourist

typically far less
fish
ghostly trash bags

describe
asshole disconnect

tavern
aurora borealis

scarecrow
parfait

asleep while
thumb-wrestling

fallout
goes up and down
like large atom
crotchet

geek jersey
except for 1st law
and ziggurat wool

which they’ll obey, they’ll
remind being:
mutinying kombucha

organic plotting
boots
to plug rainy cabin-
spying

train station
remote
drew near with a bang

dating icebergs
in destroyer jacket OR
fishnet around dogs

espresso border IS
a harp’s g-string serenading
low cloud rest

energy commercial
snot about emotions

designing less
freshmen girls

eyepatch
surfing

for the parents they
had tontos
grin-conceal

kiosk aftercare
with jelly babies
in the other hand

singed
medical experiment

hypocrisy is
commitment to phototonics

the payback:
TRON carpetburn

PUNCH DRUNK

the dank, funny music that resonates down your spine
when you walk drunkenly, at night, through a clothesline,
the ketchup behind your eyes when thumbed
by a glenn danzig hitchhiker,

despite the backyard’s inner strength, a square,
pulls-no-punches view attempts passage through
the exoskeletons of patio furniture and bird feeders,

paintball castration, your squishy vision synthesizing
a highway of quantum backflips, numbed axe cells
chopping the air, forming a fake pixel pavement

the snoring the next morning on
your back in the grass eliciting whiskered whimpers
and yips and saber drool

‘don’t be afraid’
says either the dog’s head or the sun behind
the dog’s head, or the collective inconvenience
you try to dose with wild aimless slaps  

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