Thursday, February 24, 2011


apocalyptic scratch in the clapboard
whose world’s end?
sun claps fizzes claps fizzes
does it?
the pride of a Smith & Wesson ice cream
all for you, uncanny blowtorch!

earth’s population is but a medium-sized fart
dribbling down your hand  
its fields, if one cares to look – whose magnets captured and killed a crow
its spinal fluid – evidence of an ocean

you’d do better with its words around your tongue
such a better person you’d be if you had exactly three vaginas
tobacco on a pretzel is a bed of time in which you’re heard really well
my thoughts in the luxurious hug of microwaves  
glaring at the hole all these feet have made in the bottom of the door
you and your sister and the guy at the filling station

is it possible to be uncertain of a concussion?
how uncertain?
how many shades of uncertain?
around how many corners?
prosthetic cactus mixing things up with many third points
feels like you’ve swooned, doesn’t it?  
consciousness always leaves the seat up
as is the case with pure Queen Elizabeth fan art
the dumpster parked on the nail of the pampered receptionist

humanoid cassette co-pilot and eternally present resonance
then launch at least ONE vagina!
goddamnit! – I don’t care if it’s built like a Volvo equipped with the intestines of a fat baby
for my Soviet Speedos are eating a cow


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