Thursday, December 30, 2010

CLOCKING OUT

in some countries, cage matches are adorned with streamers
in the smoky head of vice, thoughts are riveted to origami propellers 
the vapors of sweat alone can turn industry
slow and sticky and dripping with honey is the voice of Romania’s queen of late-night infomercials
Boney M sang of the ridiculous tin
in the Tao of Nixon, you will see more engineering tips than in the handbook under a Boeing 747’s pillow
impossible to understand, but I bet the rumbling still got your attention?
for it may one day yield the secret of what the hawk sits delaminating on

the fight taking place in this cage is a neuron out of this world
it is a bucket full of Kodachrome rolls
once they had captured vulture foreplay
a Pez dispenser of dirty sound
she will be missed with a squeaky hysteria, i.e.
with the sound of a whole world twisting its collective sneaker ninety degrees
her reusable personality will finally beautifully atrophy 
authentic
the crimped muzzle of a mosquito savors its drink
like China’s esophageal missiles
the mouth of my country is shamelessly derivative of mole art

no longer do citizens have such fluid, impromptu, trigger-friendly confidence in their leaders
a moving picture museum responding only to one ratchet
learn from factories
they run on love

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

DEAR MISTER PRESIDENT

The president’s SUV looks angrier passing under the low light of the HP printer, but still verisimilar. We have only recently fully acquired a taste for pepper spray, and our washing machines finally got good at balancing mittens. Polarized shirtless, fretting, our president late for his very important annoying return, engaging his porridge in some kind of body-morphing performance art, his new advisor a bird with incredibly sharp avian wisdom teeth, a cry in the wilderness he for some reason deems witty. My howl, for its part, has been forged in a few days in a wheelbarrow.

I believe now is the time for cryptozoooids to transcend their differences, to come together and unite in a puddle-perfect phantasmagoria, murders being a thing of the past and forensic science honing itself on sand sculptures. Mark my words, brothers: a very big impact is going to be made by a 2 dollar sparkling gem. On other planets riots are caused in knish uniforms, and open casket burials prevent colds. Why are we so behind the times? Seems the death ray is bad at its job. Hey, your backpack straps are on fire! Belong to a club. Find a purpose. I am one of over a thousand insurance salesmen. By the way, my club foot says hello.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

MAP OF THE MINEFIELD

navigated the interstices of optimism
found the fully-functional elephant
playing a flute, meaning you’re special
even though you read and got infected
by the bubonic email, and you thought
it best to boycott the wizard newspaper
when really –

this totally smashes everything with nothing
but glass may get healthier
shatters near the beginning
but on the other side, crystal
clear: the diorama of hanged toy
soldiers, vintage corn flakes
terminator plastercast
ceremonious adoption of remote lost crystals

propaganda dust devil worried by boots in
the warehouse where once was parked
a logic never before used by humanity
except in a japanese remake famous for
delaying the craziest but ultimately
most profound halftime show in existence,
with slippers that immobilized
the brawniest gait, with tusk glue
that doomed the elephant’s wrinkly grin

oh the intolerable austerity of the high definition
ice rink, the cold sense of the dough sniffing white
nose of the oven, the average cheerleader outfit 
cast in the form of a nesting doll, the lifespan of
boredom on 4chan augmented virtually the same way,
how to challenge the motivation for that ultimately
important connection, landings between floors,
concussions between minds

Monday, December 27, 2010

WHISPERINGS IN THE DRYWALL

On my arms, on paper, on the previous night’s math, on a prim heap of God filings. I’d been trying to calculate the curious sudden slump in the number of Korean boy bands. Coffee at 2a.m. Uttered the Dinosaur Slur, a slur against dinosaurs spoken, ironically, with a dinosaur’s slur, and meant to denote grave unhappiness. I hoard bright sharp metal shavings I use math to meticulously chip off of God’s body. I suspect I’m being tested, as any such mathematician would be. By some TV crew. I’m on ‘Hoarders.’ But also not. The challenge is to continue hoarding without knowing if I’m doing it for the sake of a few million bloated, bored viewers. I’d be devastated if I did. So this afternoon I was out in the garden applying a wet-dry Vortex shaver to the tree stumps. How I love the feeling of a smooth, pulpy shave. The sound. The rich wetness. Like damp feet walking across a new carpet. All the time I felt observed. But it wasn’t the usual TV crews watching me, it was a fairy.

I’m in love again. It’s that familiar tough time of the year again. This morning, I took that incendiary Julia Child morning bark so very personally, as I do every morning. The pigeon shit Kool-Aid look-alike on the bedside table swilled with a drunken flavor. I tried following the whispering communications between different oatmeal algorithms. I was vaguely aware of surfaces rumbling with unplowed acne. The world is fertile and rich with possibilities, but where to begin? The suicidal man asleep on such a night travels in a pro-life airplane. Morning is the resentful meatloaf. I’m usually unaware I’ve been catcalling some time during the night at the model army tanks and surfboards on my ceiling, or grinding new shoes in the area between sleep and waking. I have to go to work soon and won’t have access to my garage. There’s no cohesion, only possibility. Also, the machines in the laundromat I’ll later be visiting respond only to bagpipes. I don’t know who it is I’m in love with. Nor who the fairy I met in the garden was.

WORLD PEACE

These days, we drive jokes too far in therapy.
Just a few minutes ago, I was laughing at the sick mind.
We’re pushing construction of the labyrinth into
another parking lot, handicap parking has a special
venn dimension, like wheelchair donuts, only two
clicks removed from deep spirituality. 
I quickly saw that this blizzard forming
was a serotonin aberration, handcuffs between patient
and therapist now forming a matter of intense
debate. A thrashing screech and a yawp.
‘Arrestation with the jelly tot on the table, hmm,’ I write
on my knee. Again forgot my notebook in the car.
Like customer service failing at return of gift horse’s
teeth. Rearing back at horsedrool dribbling
from countertop. ‘Do you enjoy watching your addiction
from over there on the comforter?’ Classic chin scratch
with upward movement of fingers.
‘Never been prouder.’ 
He said some time ago that the Bat Sign is here to stay.
‘At the end of the sky’s baseball bat.’ Did I detect
violent inclinations?
Pointing at the window yelling: ‘Are you telling me I’m
the only one seeing it?’
OK let’s rule out violent inclinations. I think there’s something
deeply moving in the delusion. It might be a striped,
humpback worm. Too many people in this town seem
to think the fire department’s impromptu Christmas eve
vaudeville was as unsettlingly sad as the rest of the world’s
nose-evacuation rituals combined.
Tearduct ignition: gonna make me cry.
Pinecone-obliterating: gluey sterile tears.
The loveliest of dismembering, though... 
Berlin hoping this will all blow away by bowel movement’s end.
Clean restroom an obstruction of world peace.
The Scotch Tape maestro just dropped by to trumpet hello
through his nostrils. SAD.
Blockbuster video: STILL an exotic hit.
Thought we’d celebrate a little tonight.
‘Humph.’ 

Sunday, December 26, 2010

NEW LAND

Why doesn’t the pilgrim have anything to talk about,
especially after taking Victorian heroin,
when he can’t even imagine the point of a
handbrake on a broom? Technology is still
in its infancy and we’d like to be easy on the
brute – we can’t keep faulting him for his ignorance –
but after a while it gets a bit tricky.

So many opinions flash through his mind
when he sees Charlie Brown, hooked to hairclips
hanging under the fat of the land, or hiding in a bin
and fermenting nicely during an apartment
heist commissioned by the pilgrim himself,
but honestly – how to formulate
these opinions? How to start pinning down
the mass of thriving, heaving gristle
in a suitable corner of the mind’s
vestibule?

Flush, then shoot an eye out with the
most inept handling of this futuristic technology –
opening a jar with toothpicks, adding bugs to
the fig in a glorious tribute to
the sweetness of the new land.
Toupees struck a cord with
all the wives’ pugs, while the honorary members
of the as-yet-embryonic TSA put a
rusty wire up the piano’s butthole.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

THIS IS NOT GOOD FOR GAS

You’re in a crawlspace, not moving, not really living, bench-pressing claustrophobia, doing squats with gloomy impatience in your trousers. You’re training for the 2089 Olympics. We’re part of a groovy little band of sex stereotypes. We’re trying to prevail against an army of permanent markers. Society no longer considers it polite to pigeonhole us with sharp, glowing instruments. I used to like drawing peanuts. I used an average brand of steak knife to tattoo them on my food. Truffle infusion stabbing. That fast, yellow, rising mist. My favorite drink? Finger bone.

These winter warmers have been made in China. Should’ve worn my meditation swag, to prevent getting worked up over the inferior wiper fluid I’d been sold to clean and reuse pizza boxes. The famous Malva pudding tracker is speaking slowly, his voice thick and slimy with satisfaction. He is perversely successful and talented, half bushman, a quarter dog, a quarter metal detector. Shakespeare promotes porn and video games with the allegorical language he’d picked up from the latrine. Allergies are a sensible precaution against altruism. It turns out masochism is actually illegal. No one had known that.

It’s sad being stuck here. We all basically got what we came for. One guy’s searches rewarded him with the ghost of petroleum. It is beautiful and seems to have a fondness for human hands. A woman is playing the weightless clavier. Certain supernatural musical organs work a lot like the lids of stainless steel pots. They feed off gravity if the correct buttons are pressed. The notes they belch out are in themselves not weightless (for that is a logical impossibility), but CONSIST of weightlessness. A fog machine would now be great for boosting the morale, if not simply for that epic effect. It might also usefully blur the vile glint in the eye of what’s indisputably a French maid ogling the horizon of the countertop growing larger. But we haven’t moved an inch yet.

It seems the very molecules that make up this line are on their way to becoming quite turbid. I’d love for us to run on air, would’ve wanted to see us as a bunch of angry shopping bags curiously holding ourselves back. Out of decency. Jamie Oliver says he likes rubbing nutmeg into his G-spot. We will have to listen for the next twelve hours how the policies of its dominion over the rest of his nervous system, and even speech processors, have been grafted over the years. In double queues, the other line always moves faster.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

LEAKED

The NSA is dropping sensors into her
blood sugar and into the slimy puddle in
the pit of Max’s throat, while backstage he’s fretting
and she’s announcing plans for her retirement.
‘Hey listen, Max. I don’t think I want to be
the stinker anymore – no longer do I wish
to be soluble with the organs of your talents
and labors. The ways and means by which you’ve
been able to bear me through show business. You’re
a genius, cuz. Don’t for a minute think me ungrateful.’

‘Well consider yourself lucky, Sheryl! Fucking fuck:
the people still love you! It could’ve gone either way:
I could’ve told you that maybe you should just granulate
your waxy lips with coffee’s coziness and retire to
a granny’s chair.’ [Savage, dripping leer.] ‘I, you see – I
used to belong to the Skype choir of roaches.’
[Spoken pompously.] ‘There are choirs, professional,
religious, and even of small-community varieties,
but also of the animal kingdom like roaches – well, they
only perform on Skype. I was part of the latter.
Proud? No. But cockroaches are the only animals
that relish near death experiences. Basically the state
you’re in now. Love ’em. [Scratches throat with
nicotine-stained fingers, wobbly chin thrust toward
the ceiling.]

‘Yeah, and who clean up before them. But not – ’
the two cousins, manager and stage performer, and
NSA snoops chant in chorus – ‘after them. That’s right.
And that make love TO THEIR COUSINS TO DELIBERATELY
GIVE THE DIALS ON THE GENE SPECTROMETER
THE HEEBIE-JEEBIES!!!’

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

INGMAR BERGMAN’S TRON (ANOTHER MUTATION)

in the woods sobbing
the woods’ sobbing
tron posing on a lawn tractor:
it being revealed to him
how it wasn’t very funny:

he’d wanted to catapult his whole body over
the counter at the tailor’s
his identity had felt a lifetime away:
mingling with deep-space odors
like coming back from the PC shop
and bearing that suspicious sour
tinge  

rural areas
rural areas’ modern parts
‘i’ve read about this:
a miracle gift less expensive
than the box
a chupacabra stocking-stuffer:
i have good reason to be despondent
it’s not for sale –

when you start thinking
along these lines the
funny thing that happens to your reality’s
sphere of influence:
you can see why santa’s introspection
consists of very fine espresso circuits
the jedi poke’s symptom of chronic fatigue syndrome’

toddling on a lightcycle
i’m going to wreck your lightcycle:
with this news it’s hard to keep the vertigo out
the tsunami doesn’t care about the hotdog stand:
‘i picture my lightcycle’s modern parts’ sugary flagellations –
the destruction of my world
is the afterimage of a winter ulcer
burnt into the mind
my mind which is coal ash peed on’ 

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

DIVEBOMB

on paper lay a repressed memory
a Mexican UFO that looked
like a spotted oyster

acidification of memory’s gel –
survival’s leaking ceiling –
self-medicating on voicemails

jumped to her death
the free action poster
I obtained from the event

briefly hanging from a silly
coronary branch
pathologically incapable
of canoodling

I get things hilariously wrong
scouting penumbral routes –
a car filled with wizards

the murder solstice is the
hunger producer, the moon a
lip-synching baby, the moon’s
kill switch frozen

a pearl’s captivity in cystic fibrosis
a payphone caught in a windpipe

Monday, December 20, 2010

WRITING JOHN WAYNE AND TELLING HIM HOW MUCH I THINK HE SUCKS

Discovered chugging the contents of a Nazi’s disposable diaper. Sucking with toilet plunger for a mouth to the great egg white blockage. Feeling like John Wayne crying on a mailbox. Had a whole stack of crib notes when taking the litmus test, but “I don’t want to talk to you, fuck off!” was the thankless response. A club foot planted on a slope, costing the town the groovy spectacle of a landslide. Captain Future straddling a rail gun doesn’t make for easy listening. Daft Punk should’ve written the score. A bear in a fountain bar realizes with a heartstopping start, with a hand lifted dramatically to an oval mouth, how he sucks at multitasking. The only modern social device the bear uses skillfully is a new flashy tool for interactive games called Snuggles™. Everything can’t be fulfilling but everything can be filling.  

Sunday, December 19, 2010

CHRISTMAS POEM

He is so enamored with radiation maps, but don’t let a Mormon hear you call them that – they’re really christmas cards, and who wouldn’t be enamored with Day-Glo cancer cells wearing little coats of glitter and malignant conical tie-dyed moles for hats? They open like normal christmas cards and contain the same vapidities and catchwords.

But this one is especially useful because it shows the skeletal structures of things wonderful without necessarily debunking them – Miramax, for example, is one of those companies that has an exoskeleton, which is radioactive, so it shows on his clever trusty map less as a five-star restaurant menu than a map of its underground tunnels. Where he plans to hide and bide his time until most of the heat has passed over, or until the company shuts down. 

Above all he many times risked getting cockblocked by a Mormon christmas card (it was the one he always wanted, fancy that – the meanest impulse would stop dead in its tracks if the card were thrust into its flight path – the risk is always there so he should drop all unnecessary burdens, whatever might hold him back. He is a beast of burden with poor dress sense). He definitely won’t wear a girdle this time to the beach, where he expects her naked body to wash up.  

MAVERICK

The world’s first and only overrated maverick. There are many mavericks but they all live up to their reputations. All of them are rated exactly right. Not this one. Nor does the prison he’s housed in live up to its reputation as a badass dungeon-esque hellhole with merciless blue and black concrete walls glazed in strains of ridiculous fungi: his new lodgings is an 8-bit jail. And he quite likes these lodgings. The only thing he hates and finds himself infuriated by is the TV, which also shows everything in 8-bit. All it features is Chicago’s famous parrot folklorist, again and again – that’s right, cheap Chicago’s bankruptcy will be ignited by the cheep and squawk of this arrogant bird making up Grimm tales as it sits loftily and tauntingly on its perch, setting bookmarks on fire on each page of our lexicon and completely rewriting the way we tell campfire stories. ‘I will kill you, you stupid bird.’ Then the maverick lapses into horrible spells of crying, again and again. Proving him – once and for all – overrated.

PLEASE STATE: WHAT ABOUT YOUR TIME IN PRISON DID YOU NOT LIKE. APART FROM THE TELEVISION. 

‘The marching band was too tame. The Drive-Thru represented a form of punishment. Seriously, this is scientific evidence for the fact that there is no more pleasure to be had. The pleasure and value deficit: it has to be seen to be believed.

‘I’m glad to be going home to my wife and kids.’

Saturday, December 18, 2010

HALLMARKS OF AN ADVANCED CULTURE

A famous loincloth-wearing primitive guy wrote some things in the diary of Levi-Strauss, the even more famous anthropologist (not the, even more famous, jeans manufacturer).

‘Very confused, then suddenly very friendly, then quiet for long stretches – this is how our native colorblindness works, tracking popcorn behavior, the decadent silhouettes in particular.’

Popular culture – as introduced by Levi Strauss – was having certain nefarious outworkings on this native Nambikwaran’s mind. He had taken to waking Strauss in the middle of the night in his tent, making dumb grunting noises and obnoxious hand motions indicating the notebook wedged beneath Strauss’s pillow. Wearily, the anthropologist humored him, sitting upright and rubbing his eye with a knuckle while with the other eye observing the brown, muddy, loinclothed dude scribbling with out-thrust tongue and hunched shoulders and crossed legs in his notebook. He had a weird way of holding the pen, Strauss noticed.

‘Piano keys in particular make me cringe! They are teeth-killing! They look like teeth! They look like PVC teeth! They LOOK LIKE PVC VELOCIRAPTOR teeth!’ In a very tiny hand, the following night, the native man wrote, in ominous red ink, Strauss’s favorite color especially when it came to describing (perhaps dangerous?) idiosyncrasies of the native Amazonian tribes: ‘Pardon me for asking, but are you by any chance Bob?’

Friday, December 17, 2010

NASA IS DOING KANSAS

Most of Francis Bacon’s animated shorts
don’t run anymore. I liked very much how he
crafted a pained, depreciatory squint into
herpes. It was a bit gross, but it showed what
a pity it was when our mouths didn’t pinch
around new concepts anymore. It was as if
we were staring after a while into a white
miasma. He was a maker of the albino occult.

His treatment of the mummified sloth sitting
down for breakfast was excellent. Any lunch
break exemplified appetite’s cliché. Around
the sloth neighborly ferns were waving to
the half-assed rain, the subtext: “Kansas apocalyptic
bed wets.” Pizzas freeze over, metastasizing into
a soft wooly cover into which a flea jumps without
fear – with a Leonard Cohen leap of faith.

Any blown mind is ultimately a structural spin-off
of a barnacle. I think it was him who documented
the AK-47’s golden years, old fogies dodging bullets
blithely. Overkill on the mark. His film could delay
shuttles. NASA cockroaches and their subsequent
hissyfits.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

A MYSTERIOUS PARCEL ARRIVED AT MY OFFICE TODAY

A sort of bad day at the office. Diseases show their real feathers in meetings when the board members all have zombie immune systems. The venality that shoots up like a Zippo’s flame: I’ve been in a Zippo-induced trance before, it’s quite a treat – but this was nothing like that. There is nothing uglier and more revealing than a Malaria parasite trying to put its best foot forward. You want to fucking kill it, I swear. I was in the broom closet with an attractive woman and told her in a warm, smelly voice: ‘Let’s take our time with this quickie. Let’s do the quickie very long.’ Our energies should be guided towards that idyllic clusterdrain of the company’s collective crotch, to form a magnificent and artistic starfish squirt. I once tried to describe to a colleague the beauty when the peyote rug in the boardroom ties up the waving filaments of its monopoly on our minds. I had failed to include even the most basic details in my description. 

A good day at the little fish pond in front of the porch of my lovely Gregorian home. ‘The world is too obsessed with struggling,’ I murmured to myself, taking aim with my rifle. I have applied for and have non-surprisingly been granted a license to shoot the shit out of Koi. Just apply for a government license to massacre cucumbers if greenhouse electro music so bothers you. Tomorrow we’ll all wake in our beds to the sounds of different alarms. Everybody goes to sleep – and in a sense awakes – alone. A Swiss Made biological clock is less likely to be misleading and to yank you out of sleep at three in the morning for no good reason other than that it thinks you should get up. The breathtaking pranks time plays on our glands and nodes. A million babies is killed in Denmark on any given morning at exactly 5a.m.; and yet the abortion forecaster on television gets it wrong every time. I hate his smug look and his tailored suit. I hate his little fu manchu mustache.

A large mysterious parcel arrived at my office today. ‘Opening this thing without the help of Molly would be devastating,’ I sighed tragically. I know this stripper who also doubles as a package opener. She has somehow segued her art with the far more practical utility of opening parcels. Each item of clothing she removes corresponds with a piece of the package being stripped off. It requires immense focus. Her business card reads: ‘Molly, professional strip art package opener. I can be yours for only $5 an hour.’ Due to pathetic and keening dependence on her services there is not a single letter opener at the company. Our hands have gotten soft and pale and sickly. We squeak at the merest paper cut. ‘I can also remove boils and cysts and stubborn obnoxious pimples. My grandmother had once been impacted in my grandfather’s armpit so deeply, only magnetic resonance imaging could espy her. I removed her no sweat.’ She’s a sweet girl.

The box contained rolls of densely packed karate headbands. 

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

MISTY CHEST IN SPRINGFIELD

The prophet’s new automotive coffin
is leaving Springfield. Its own radio is
airing its dwindling boom from within. He’d
left his soft, bouncy tree house, although many
guess it’s because the pneumatic actuators of
the tree house have sprung a leak, with a
suspicious-sounding crack of stepped-on
fire kindle beneath his ass. 
 
What are you expecting from a prophet
holding his breath under the heaving
humble windmill of Springfield? Wellingtons
forcefully uprooted? Or ones – to the relief of
the Constipation Czar himself – rebounding 
on, and finally kicking apart, the asylum’s
fudge shrine?

‘No way he’ll opt for the position of Cowshed
Patron Saint this time. He’s out of here.
This time maybe for good.’ He could always be
counted on to fight the farm’s impulses;
but this morning he awoke overwhelmed.
‘Fear of loss of his sweater, Frank. It was
intense. The mist on the poor old chest.
He wrote a poem about the peculiar icy
dent developing in his chest:

“Below-zero cremation is what has produced
each of my breaths this morning. Alda.
Where is my precious Alda? Whoot!”
Ranting about this “Alda” bird all the time...
Safe to say the man is clearly no longer fit
for farm duties.’

‘He was also developing pink bulging eyes. Curly
horns on his head. The last account depicted
what to all intents and purposes represented
the Abominable Snowman ensconced in
sofa porn.’

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

COUCH SURFING

It’s a pilgrimage intended to make HIV exciting, but bring a refined gavel (engraved foliage is recommended), because the orgy won’t take place in a gift shop like last time – we’ll be making many stopovers at porcelain shops instead, where things simply break differently. A retro clock with a Marmite face dents like tin, and there’s nothing funny about that – it’s just not appropriate for our purposes.

Well, the lice-ridden couch surfer was gratuitously hostile. He was out of his element on the shuttle carrier because there weren’t any couches, and once he saw Harriet’s toy smurf he developed an obsession and went smurf scouting in each and every compartment of the shuttle sporting a red, desperate face and grated, eczematic knees, driving people from their sleep.

Perhaps this time I won’t be talking never-ending about getting outsmarted by the senile vacationer. I won’t be making bold claims about how drunkenness empowers jelly (and/or swimming vision, vision swimming drunk at dusk, or under an infrared light in brain warmth) – how avoiding the eye in the castle of jelly on the tray is key to outsmarting hangover shits and headaches. These are lame distractions from the fact that I had failed in the battle of wits with that crazy old man.

‘If you love stem cells,’ the couch surfer cried out with a genuine cry in his voice, ‘you will all chip in and convert this vulgar blob that used to be Martin into a smurf!’ He was just being greedy; we all knew he was at his rope’s end. He hadn’t found a single smurf in the shuttle, and now he wanted us to yield what stems cells we could pick out of our hair and convert someone’s friend (‘Martin’ - who’d deliquesced at the sight of a naked Avatar who’d swung by on a rope) into a smurf! He made it very plain – as only desperate people could – that he had no interest in reanimating the original person. ‘Martin,’ whoever the fuck that was.

Lust as much inhabited (and destroyed) the scaffolds of run-of-the-mill cells as heat inhabited the tabloid tiger: rolling over in the middle of the night, with a groan, we’d very intricately break. Like the box of fleeting sensations none of us traveled without. Not even the loathsome couch surfer. We wore grimy contact lenses. Everything in the pictures we took ended up looking like secondhand water features. Watery, but with a vague semblance of structure. Including the tiger: its heat looked like a series of overused icicles. Just like in the tabloids.

IN HELL

Are you glad there is a thing like strawberry chemistry?
Then it would be polite to share your ulcers.
They are strawberries in end-state chemistry.
Hell-development is going down – 
a portion of the air guitar is still slightly grainy, however.

As the eBay description says: ‘Doesn’t grate
knuckles all the way.’ The less Hell, the more
gap mouth the guitar.
If you weren’t so into water aerobics,
it would have been the magnified cloud – floating
around in it and with an inexplicably lazy tongue
saying ‘Soup.’ All the time. For no reason.

‘“Soup,” I say this a lot,’ you would’ve said a lot.
‘“Soup,” “Cloud,” “Float,” “Fart,”’ I say all
the time,’ you would’ve said all the time.
In the left hemisphere of my brain, the
maid had left the pop-up timer, and so

I’m going to have to kill her – or phone iMaid
and demand they stop processing
the 3LG 90000 model, because this (I will explain)
‘[feels] like a deer root canal;
extending to the horn, where a soda can
explodes, and despair’s foam is curbed 

by an ineffectual busted sneaker, placed
before a storm drain.’ Mona Lisa
home-made in Hell, fallen into despair,
with tusks (rapidly expanding soda pressure – see
what I did there?), trying out, very tentatively, her
own personal failings; on a Kawasaki 50cc; watching them go.

But in Hell personal failings are everywhere. And so
are Kawasakis.

As are Mona Lisas.   

Monday, December 13, 2010

OLDER COUSIN FREDDY

drunken manipulation by carnie of plush toy grapnel
high up twiddling legs like palsied squid
acrobat suddenly develops huge hungry eye
hard not to lose balance drooling over
safety net dragged in from carnival:

carrion harvest

‘come in and explore my tent –
i shall please you with neon lunch’
a spookiness to murder-leftover formation, something
even more off-putting in mcnugget hemorrhage

quick panicked breaths hinging on central
empty lung of firmly gripped

margarita

anybody hear the horrible squelch yet?
no, the mime has not yet absorbed his mask

princess leia’s first day as daycare nurse represents
biggest failure in popular culture since my best
friend’s latest miserable defeat as proxy groom
‘you are the worst proxy groom in the history of
proxy grooms, Harry,’ pointing at him

a cuticle-mad

finger ‘ghetto extraordinaire though you may be, no
groom which unfortunately won’t be able make it
to his wedding on account of business or untimely
disease or whatever will ever hire a

clown like you

again’ dweller of the lost, door-less room – foot-deep
in a cathartic daze, alone with dvd box set unveiled
by darkness the instant whom we shall know
merely as ‘older cousin freddy’ abandoned

it ‘down your chernobyl gullet,’ three-eyed tailless
mermaid says to chorus of filthy gawkers, pouring
green gummy liquid

down throat

everyman batteries run low faster than clone
batteries all clones therefore beginning to look
quite ordinary ‘ultra fast and ultra flappy – not
to mention comfortably

padded and reinforced,’ 

market crier described through bullhorn fishtail
prosthesis twitching in cage

Sunday, December 12, 2010

VIKINGS SANK THE CANOE

These buttons are great for yoga.
Yoga is great for bad hair days.

Paranoia: put out your wig!
It is on fire!
Come join us!

The master is not busy leveraging the cliché.
He is saying:
‘Come, fear not!’

‘Scared of the hyperactive bathroom?
Bad vibes good for bowels!’  
Fear is paisley cheeks. 

(My wish list is finally getting the idea.)
Singapore blight.
Lights sitting on eyelids.
Cool.

Cool: I do love Alzheimer’s gimmicks. 
This button, if I press it.
Ngh ... whazzackly would it do??

Viking walk-in closets clang
on the shoulders and hips
of the embonpoint.

Like the man whose psyche
grips him tight with hard clumsy
blunt paws lest he runs away naked
yodeling free. 

‘Fear is itself not a fearful entity.
‘Fear if taken out of context, I mean.’
[Master clears throat politely, embarrassedly.]
‘It likes cereal.
‘It was born in a canoe.’

Is there any truth to the rumor
cities will go faster if I let go?
Why so many commercials about
decomposing and about decomposition?

Wielding my outsize Victorian hat under the bus sign.
Hair lice helpfully weigh in on my companion’s
braiding problems in the morning.
Whistling.

I feel so useless.

IN A TAXI GOING SOUTH



My ticket stub is lying in the mess of receipts on the passenger floorboard. Cops at roadblocks don’t look forgivingly upon chaotic floorboards, and the skillet lost in its chaos might prove dangerous to them. A lenient God would hope I will survive what’s coming, because I’m kinda crappy and He knows it. I’ll try harder next time. 

A mattress of ticket stubs and receipts and bills is an oasis, and honesty about the lost ticket stub is a contagion. Nobody outside the criminal world, I’m sure, thinks of things this sweetly. There simply doesn’t exist a dispensary for self-assembling grocery bags. I will have to invent one. I bet the instant the world straddles this runaway gallbladder aesthetic, soap opera smiles would be beamed down by satellites; knives in crime dramas would expertly and jovially slice through the degenerate strands of drool hanging from them.

‘I’m the one everyone came to see, officer. I’m a professional dancer.’ His smug grin shatters.

‘You mean to say you’re – ’

‘Yes.’

A flicker of doubt. Cops are so easily taken in.

‘M-move along.’
 

I FEEL BAD ABOUT THE SANDWICH

Ever wonder at which premier spot exactly the sandwich was dropped from a flying saucer? I will tell you. It was dropped at a premier surfing destination.

No kidding. 

Ever wonder how a dirty menu can be utilized as a costume? I don’t know either, but I do know a skunk in my garage which dons a ski mask at full moon, then looks like a slanted-eyed puppethead; it thinks it is safe as long as you tell it what to say. Menus do that. Even the dirty ones – the ugliest menu can feel bloated on self-confidence as long as it believes the items you read off it are words you put in its ‘mouth.’

I feel bad about the sandwich. It was I who dropped it from the UFO. And I feel bad about the skunk – to make up for it I gave it that Stockholm Syndrome training device which it dutifully straddles when the moon isn’t full and really grinds those tiny tendons in its front and hind legs, its little claws scrabbling on the treadmill and causing the hairs on everybody in the vicinity’s neck to stand on end. Before long, I don’t think it would have any difficulty saying, ‘YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING.’

Saturday, December 11, 2010

THE PRINCE

The prince was found dead surrounded by a fascinating but frightening assembly of petshop merch, seeds mostly but here and there a snake hook and a gigantic fish net lay crammed violently in the mud. Instruments of the paranoid and obsessive pet owner. Life at the palace had become unendurable – the complete alienation of the palace ducks was incredibly hard to take. He realized that the ducks weren’t seeing him with loving fondness or even understanding anymore and the way he came to realize this was both tragic and entertaining: on Broadway, a Klingon ship was revealed to the audience, of which the prince was a part, to be a green scrawny chest floating in space. This was what you got when you did a nubbin by nubbin breakdown of the chest cloaking your pet’s appreciation of your love. You came up empty-handed and aghast. Artificial thunder struck a mirror lying flat on the stage – an impressive display of trapped energy roiling submissively in a reflective surface on behalf of Klingon vanity, but it brought all eyes on the prince, who wished only to be seen by his ducks.

PEEPSHOW

In the beginning it felt like alligator cancer. What kind of escape is shooting a grappling hook into Urban Outfitter’s ceiling? The sanctuary turns out to be an average peepshow. I accepted the delirium at the end of this tooth. A penguin lassoed is a Jungian archetype speaking snuffbox: ‘Help me, brown spores – you’re my only hope.’ Burn down power with waste. John Travolta’s scoliosis debilitates his brutality so that he’s twice as likely to utter platitudes to his hostages. 

Friday, December 10, 2010

CREEPING ECLIPSE

cloudy with a chance of seat belts
a necessary evil since the weatherman did more than just eclipse the bubble of my dangerous, accelerating engrossment with him – he in fact totally exceeded my interest, like an exploding athlete 
he wouldn’t move initially, then it looked as though he was going to turn around and run full-speed into the screen, sputtering darker and darker pixels all the time
but at other times he grew so large and interesting, that – like a fascinating pop-up store on a rescue float chasing pirates instead of landlords who swap clemency for blowjobs – the clouds on the screen would respond like wet feathers to his proximity
‘putting my hand here on this glacier,’ he said running his hand along a blue line with pointed teeth, ‘would be like touching SOMEBODY ELSE’S glacier’
he was a creepy haze in an envelope – misty fingers curled around the edges, and he was so flat and no longer quite as interesting
i lowered my dress before somebody had a chance to walk in

SIGNIFYING DRUGS

My home collection is a veritable monument to the subversion of the Neo-Bong, a breed of new dope smokers who smoke with government permission and have a choice between fashionable designer bongs from Omega to Louis Vitton to Diesel to Esprit to Ed motherfucking Hardy. Nothing is placed here without permission from the thoughts happening between my Mars Muffs – simple ear muffins I bought and suped up to resemble high-tech bathplugs. I never smoke without them because they look cool and keep my thoughts from escaping and contaminating the street decor outside. While I may wear Martian earplugs, I no longer sell Martian bongs, nor for reactionary reasons display them on the pavement on a rickety fold-up table. But in my Martian Attack Car – it was bought on violentuniverse.com; oh, and it also attacks anything in sight – I traveled to the Yup! Groceries rendezvous, located in the nastiest public swamp, which the public consciousness sinks into on a continual basis but smartly pokes its head out again in anticipation of waking up next to you. 

Thursday, December 9, 2010

SHAKEN IN A JAR

Swan sulfur, kicked up by the lake after the meteor’s pounce.
We won’t be having a good holiday on the lethal perimeter.
There are too many coffins beaching themselves and our little
schnauzer will be disturbed. Send us a Confucian holiday card –
our memories won’t auto-erase when his sculptural finger
has strolled over to add another hit number to ‘The
Greatest Moments in Frisking.’

It won’t happen.

I might with all this confusion going on rebrand myself as
The Army of the Willow Tree – alien dishonor is overdue, I’ve
got several dozen fridge dial interpretations right here, so my
shit’s backed up. We’re coming with the Moscow Monobrow
to trap a warrior in a barbershop.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

CATHOLIC GUILT: WROUGHT FROM TENNIS BALL FIBER

It dawned on the Eggnog that it missed its home planet. It got that HIV-positive shine – it was sick but radiant, was collapsing like a chin in glitter. On the other hand it could always dance. Sort of. Well, with a fast finger you could easily buy a few Salsa Rarities on Monster’s toast. 

In the garage, the coolant sat still with its venereal warts. Every day so far this has been its petty thrill – its Junk In Catholic Trinket. The Boink’s Carbolic Shrink-It. As seen on cleaning products: that very specific gleam on its Chain link. 

Played chicken with Borg Mobile™ home. Demand froze for banana fiber’s ‘Candle In The Wind.’ As sung by Steppenwolf, who chanted ‘I never asked for a Japanese divorce under Brash stars’ Milky Cow.’ Written by Wasp Clash Tennis racquet. The D-minor soul-cry of very on-grid toilet paper.

BLONDE GADDAFI

I remember being shocked that first time learning about transistors. Monolithic bees hectored each other for the quickest effective switch. ‘Electrocution glands’ – these things were key, and they beautifully made way for small, up and coming ones like rampant nipples. It was like walking through a microscopic room; but you were a beekeeper mutilating triangular switches into yourself to avoid similar-shaped stabs. I remember I had no scruples, in my shock, calling bees ‘bugs.’

But once in a nightmare I was a sniffer dog that had a thing for licking xylophones and biting off curtains. Transistors have gates and this was how I navigated my way through them. It was all fake, the xylophones too, which was why my barks pumped off Tyra Banks quotes from that show on which she fell and, getting up and rubbing her head, said her ‘concussion’s defect was a merry kiosk on a psych ward’ – a cold spot on the sun, the unintended friendly utterance to an enemy. Toxic therapy could be transported on the backs of toy trucks driven by Gadaffi in a movie she called – I swear to God she called it this – A BLONDE SCI-FI MOVIE. Only because apparently Gadaffi himself was blonde in it? Therefore not a … rogue?

I woke up so rattled. I was late for my flight and had to run all the way across the runway and got licked up by the airplane’s tongue – a great wet happy slobbering tongue emitted from the gaping ‘mouth’ below the cockpit. It was warm and cozy and slimy whereas the rest of the plane was icy cold and metallic and gray, which was why everybody inside was wearing sweaters but a few were gashed through with epic cleavages. An android’s bristly iron shavings were trying to pass themselves off as authentic chest hairs through the split in one of the sweaters in the rows of seats I espied after flopping via the happy tongue into the plane. Smoke disquiet, android. With your electric cigarette or whatever. They’re allowed on planes. But feeling-powered amoebae aren’t directing your evolution like they’re doing our movies, fucker.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

SMALL ROCK SICK

‘Thank you, stage magician.’ ‘You’re welcome, airborne gift in sputnik wrapping paper.’ Kill me now Plutooooooo! Ooh my feet are cold, and my toes multiply, in your epidemic atelier! I cannot work in this place! Jail Declares Loss even though I’m merely hanging here – from your ceiling, waving – not small, not a rock, not sick. How else did I survive while everyone else was massaging their scalps with typhoid hair gel? Abstinence. Infamously known as the hypnotic condom. How come I’m such a good actor? Wiccan cat puke – that unearthly extension of Old Tricks. Bambi written in very depressing code. With in-depth knowledge of deer, bafflement came to us. Here’s my advice to the PR team of anyone caught fighting an Oscar trophy – don’t drown yourself in a punch bowl. It’s embarrassing, and such antics on the office carpet can ruin your career, but be more afraid of the bowl’s candid deep zoom. ‘I tried to save them,’ were his last words. Words better protected than embarrassment. Memorable events of the pallbearers preserved on YouTube; depraved CEOs use these clips as lessons in elitism. ‘Where have you been my whole life?’ ‘Excited by Pol Pot.’ ‘That far?’ Of illusion counterclockwise on my coffee.

Monday, December 6, 2010

WHAT SHE’S MADE OF THEY MADE HER OF

Anatomical wind chimes is what male thought
made of her by entering at just the right speed. 
A marionette with a degree in knots, her PTSD
gestures constituted the money shot. Check out
these shameful reunifications: anti-gravity syndrome
gets it from brothel acupuncture’s gilded pogos.
Who patented the painkiller output? She was not
really fooled by the crap in the mail, by
yuletide berserkers and 5-minute jerkers,  
sitting on a cocoa throne with points of view
like a flurrying leak. On the bright side of the caribou,
there was a real woman, although lesbian jazz –
clenching the horns between its jaws – still
cheers me up. I’m a tidal load of strangers loaded
with strangers – orgasm flakes the zeppelin would
easily trade for the laser cab mistletoe.

YANK THE DROWNING UP BY THEIR WOODEN HANDLES

The lifesaver is nowhere near
as baroque –it takes over
empty journeyings, rubber
purse sent out on a motor
to the drowning –
and will be back inside you
to strike someone else’s genes
through with (your)
backwash. Snow will be launched with
the slings. 

Give loitering in patterns a shot,
inside out hot tubs un-
masked and prepared a place
in the dungeon of the limited edition

butterfly, the fretwork
with the joke taken off.

EYESORE ATTRACTION

There’s more, some not as exposed as others – kitsch lightening gummed to the poster cortex. What do you see after stepping on an egg? How do you know you’ve tripped on the sadistic capsule? Is what rolls out and over porcupines in bleach? A slippery spectrum – white-tipped, a dark kept with tent pegs from lifting – is rekindled. A model for: ‘I wish I had bypassed’ – a thought gone horribly wrong. Unexpected benefits so awesome, they’d laugh in your face when you turn to them and say, dismissively (you plan to take a mushroom and set up a polkadot under its poisonous awning), you’d been around the sides of so many elbows.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

BUY MY BOOK

I would love to lose my heart, but above all I would love to lose it to the faces of lice I’m expecting to ooze out of here, the gush of them which to my sweet-toothed heart would be like embracing cotton candy. A reassuring picture from the vaults. When you buy medicinal raffle tickets, your mind stands a chance to win those arrested sirens in the scary loft. The heady healing of storage. The vaudeville bounty hunter crouching under the damaging steam, arms fanning out postcards – he’s losing it by mistaking them for antique versions of latkes. We’ll be licking espresso foam from the corners of our mouths before this stairwell has ended.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

INCREDIBLY INSPIRED

The frothing violin is causally practically conjoined with the Nam flashbacks he gets whenever his instructor raises her voice in a little panicked chirrup when he has swung his arm wrongly or squeezed a string not lovingly enough. Or hatefully enough. In swimming class he often begins to panic as it seems to him he’s in the middle of a shipwreck. He feels himself floundering, and clutching at a fat thigh he thinks blubbering in his hand is instead wood pulped against the rocks, and he hears a loud cracking sound as of a big tree falling. His violin instructor can’t figure out what the heck is wrong with the violin, although she’s quick with the hosepipe and sprays him and violin simultaneously while letting out a distressed and haunting cry. That also sometimes reminds him of Nam. Pity she’s such an attractive woman in a housedress and has such attractive, clean arms – this bit doesn’t jibe well with the flashbacks. But never mind.

He loves over-filled garbage. It makes him feel muscular. He sympathizes on a deep literal level with inanimate objects and to him these things peeling out of the bins are evocative of liberated strength, and his sympathies are spooning this up in great greedy swipes. In the great filthy deluge muscly garbage his old arthritis pains, the most potent signifiers of infirmity, are greatly reduced. 

He does for a fact know that he is in fact still Burt Reynolds, and on a warm evening beside a river bubbling with Napalm had once ejected from a Daiquiri, drunk and happy, singing an eulogy to a dark-skinned pimp who’d saved him a mild amount of humiliation somehow. He felt like an invisible olive. With a  mullet. Still clutching at the advice of the pimp, even two-hundred feet up.

‘Will you, with your mutant discipline, smuggle me into your wonderful land? You can have this young girl’s beaver. You people do like beavers, don’t you?’

‘We have them in Canada. We’re fond of them, yeah.’

‘Oh please! You again slept through the bonfire ceremony. I told Clive not to roll you and your sandals and the bamboo mat you were sleeping on and the hissing embers near your toes into one and smoke you like a cheroot, and believe me it took a lot of pleading, more than I’m doing now, which I can see isn’t effective, so perhaps there is something in my shorts or in my hair or underneath the fold-up director’s chair my soul is sitting on that’s crimping this ability, because usually I have it in spades.’ [Looks down with pinched mouth at dirt + holding chin thoughtfully.]

You slept through the whole thing, Burt. The war. Your grandchildren’s births. You even slept through the time you roamed the streets in search of garbage spilling from dark hidden dumpsters. The bigger and more ogreish the dumpsters the better. You slept through your arthritis pain. The song you sung to your pimp all the way up there in the air was incredibly inspired, is all I can say.

EVIL - ANOTHER MUTATION

The wild pack of dogs running across the yard: was the feel of it as al dente as it looked? I was on quite a good windowsill there. It felt really paradisiacal, like the orphanage I grew up in. I understood my feelings, was comfortable in my carbon fiber wrap. Bunny intricacies lip synced my clever explanations of what I thought them to be up to, as though they didn’t understand themselves. I had to take what others didn’t want. The stuff I regurgitated while holding the large black controls to the remote control plane that was busy crashing and which I knew was busy crashing. I handed over the controls and continued eating my present. The happy sock turned and followed the plane’s emergency landing. I was glad no one wanted my regurgitations and that I didn’t have to sit with a broken plane I loved very much. I don’t want to love people too much. That’s why I continued chewing and it tasted the way I always imagined the butts of cigarettes tasted like. Those were good times. They felt like my mother’s pasta. My mother was the orphanage. My father was the pack of dogs. All of them had just the right consistency.

WE WANT YOU OUT OF HERE

Based on a mixtape loaded with incriminating teenage angst-inflected, self-important schlock music, Interpol sought a warrant to forcibly remove Nessie from the Hudson River where it had been sticking its slick wet otter head out for centuries producing blurry pictures on living room mantle pieces and desktops of office cubicles. The main challenge still lay in proving that the tape belonged to the monster. A positive finding would outright nail the creature but Interpol had an appetite for a good red herring still, and thrived on their exquisite knack for wasting everybody’s time. Interpol loved this. And hoped fervently that the Loch Ness Monster was some sort of con job or, on the other side of the spectrum, a poorly understood scapegoat-like loner that simply was a magnet for trouble. They’d pursue the case until it finally rendered full proof that the mixtape with the teeny tunes on it didn’t belong to the monster and get that sweet sick thrill of running the full length of a dead lead and coming up against the sickly orgasmic climax of such a concussive disappointment. Interpol thrived on this sort of thrill still. After all these many years. Never tired of it. Sticklers for failure.

But the townsfolk still wanted the monster out of the Hudson because its body mass displaced a great volume of water, and with it gone, they were sure much of their belongings which they’d somehow lost in the river, now stuck in the mud below, would in Christmassy fashion materialize. Old shoes. Bath toys. Computer parts. Memorabilia. Kitchen utensils and garage tools. Garden furniture. All would half-poke out of the mud in the water’s displacement by the monster’s removal from the river. The tape did belong to the monster. It liked that kind of music. 

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