Thursday, March 31, 2011


Capacity for horror increased by exorcising the yokel from the trunk. Not yet dead physician refracted. His sort of sad, gimcrack instrument folded in a dun, grease-stained cloth, a cramp-wracked Kalashnikov. In aluminum powder and green eyeshadow it looked like he'd hung himself. Thorazine also looks and moves, a clawing bugface. Flashback of his wedding 25 years ago: the stunts to be performed by the bride and groom in altered digital states. A little bit crazy consistency, hopelessly complicated because there's no monkey. 
Unleaded grizzly italicized whoosh: never leaving the ambit of pneumonia's ribs. Obscurity's (consistent) breakdown childishly scrambled by time-space amphetamines, with motor variables sharing a keyboard button.
The mechanism jammed in the process of reigniting the Cookie Monster. Lounging about in pocket calculator solitude. The gorenaut pillowcased deludedly, otherwise captured with the help of alien specks in 1930s tantrums. Surprised by the colossal, yet single molecule in the ironlung traumatizing itself micrometer by micrometer through a straw.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011


An endoergic downward spiral, the beta machine losing its reflexes to acid.
A stem growing from this marvelous indigestion, with a small pea on top.

Need energy.

Upgrading autism with new onboard computers. The gang of hackers follow the lateral causeways of a Pac-Man haircut.

Release energy.

The taxonomy of beer - an L-shaped swirl stomached.
Happiness exoergic in magnetic compounds.

Release energy.

Sound like dye misfolding through the living system of the Telecaster ambitiously straddled by a nematode.

Need energy. 
Scare with rap names. (Release energy.)
Beer on the other hand is a VICTIM of taxonomy. (Need energy.)
The perpetual motion machine drowns Akira in disgusting bathwater.
There is, in its grin, not much room for selenium.
Overflowing the hoofprints - balsamic demi-glaze after the carnivores became impermanent.



It's a really good monster living breathing
real Euclidean 70s style - applying beast resin
dubstep bleary-eyed. A variety of recreational particles
crocheted countless times in each smasher. No matter what
fades away cool slicked back twisted. The burn of space dried away
in epic parabolic reversions to Pringles.

The fall-asleep formation. It doesn’t only happen
in a wealth of drawings of apples, her foray into feral
calculus. She continues to not be less interesting than the Incredible Hulk.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


Rudy is the town's very last and yet its very best ocularist, and he has kindly requested to take your testicle back to his lab. Congratulate him, the Jackie Chan of most eccentric fusion-knuckles – putting it back in your testicle would be afforded a view through a smokestack. Curer of synesthesia, the single, kind of old-fashioned dial tone heard during lesbian sex. Inside some dude's EMINEM hoodie he'd programmed the atom of a slab of meat to ring for ten thousand years. Patron saint of the gypsy demographic, which he'd helped propel upstream in a frozen bowl of OCTAlight.


'Why, by placing a tazer gun in each tentacle of an octopus, I can - '.

'Our call center deconstructs blabbering sex minions into jawbone obscura. Disintegrating them through the monocle of foggy, short-lived meaning into a moment of not-so-faint cola.'

One who enjoys his or her nose ceremonially falcated – such is a man or woman who also enjoys balancing a spinning penis in his or her surgically exaggerated harelip. Who, by turning on the television, carburets renewable energy into flat, shiny, reflective sewage. The body is not so much a vessel of the soul as a cruelly banged-around hockey puck, nitrate and myrrh infected. While hauling out the whip, our bodies whisper: 'The beatings of life are so inclined toward electrostatic thrift store clothing rack shocks, with their own hipsterical valence...'

Stimulations with their stuffing hanging out. Speech cadences driving the call center's clients to think not of solar mullets, rather of the entire lawnmower - which like all grass-cutting implements since growing their own egos is all about appearances. Suddenly catapulted into week-old landscapes. Interaction-skirt wading into the demented.

Monday, March 28, 2011


a spore-borne disease spread by the medieval knight, thief, handler, and expert hider of putrid snacks in his metal battle armor

at the Dodgers game, all the women's taste buds were fitted with audio and video devices - to enable monitors a closer look at the objects placed in their mouths, and the frequency of insertions in the same orifices of found, non-culinary objects like elastic bands and the caps of soda bottles

I am raising funds to help the handsome dung beetle initiate a spectacular stalling of the giant ball of cheese currently moving across Norway, which I'm betting it would pull off not with its hind legs but with a perfunctory lick

something the agent provocateur carries with her – I don't know - smells funny; like a stuntman's secret fear of heights and doorbells, and buildings that somehow incorporate both elements

as it is so good to hang out with all the found objects collected by monitors of women's gastronomical preferences at ballgames, I will perversely caress, and then gently squash until it breaks, this beautiful silver locket

some exciting news for grease, and for scientists, who will swarm the baboon's highly evocative but ill-conceived image of you in wrestling jumpers

the raptor in YOUR underwear, in the pharmacy's dispensary, looks like he would bark madly and moonstruck at YOUR O-face

(your O-face is fueled by, and can only be affected with, blazing mindfulness)

thank you, English vomit - for being more friendly to the neon furry dashboard mascot than you've just been to my trousers and shoes and floorboard: now my artificial, lemon-scented motility will be going for miles in a direction known not to the wisest man in the land

so often serenaded very badly with a very ugly song, proving gun stores and the men who frequent and exchange gossip in them pathetic

remind me to haul out the pots and pans for the poltergeist talent show tonight, and yeah, I'm betting on Bertie, in the last episode so unfairly punished (with a near unaffordable 3000 points) for dry-humping instead of loudly clanging the rusty carapace of an old farm tractor stage prop


Gentleman coal ash,
Haunted in Absinthe,
Cupboard fog,
Handle to the Cruelty Superglue,

Undertaker muse amid feathers,
Quietly ghost,
Bebop crystals monkey-picked from hair,
Transgendered jangled,
Brand activism truncation wank,

Invite for dinner Mighty Morphin Power Ranger,
At 5 o'clock: turbulence's good side,
Celluloid Future marks descent of Taco,
It's more than just a boner –
It's a typographical sign,

Greedy sniffles of,
Electronic benefit detector,
Apron chloroform,
Keeping Ark swankily limo,
At the ebb's poisoned orange,

Sunday, March 27, 2011


'Rosemary's Baby is in my blood,' says the Tardis.

'The anatomy of an earthworm,' Rosemary's Baby says, describing
what teleportation looks like.

'Art Deco,' its description of the Tardis itself.

'Thalamus biter,' the Tardis' description of Rosemary's Baby's behavior in situ.

'I am sorry a two-second frame of my face, taken from a moving train, has ever appeared on the Travel Channel.' (Hemingway, nursing his drink with an ambiguous leer.) 
Written in the speech bubble materializing right by the pocket of the bum camping out in the subway terminal: 'Yo! I am your internal body functions!'

'It was an oblique experience, like falling only trippier. But now I'm exhausted.' (God – re the creation of Man.)

'Batteries do have feelings, bless their little hearts' – a flashlight, in Morse.

'And they move their mouths' - Patrick Swayze to Keano Reeves, in the movie Point Break, in one of his bouts of self-convinced, home-brew philosophizing, fireside, in respect of fish.

'Cinnamon is therapy.'*

'I was confident I could have a pie chart made in my honor.' (Father of six, husband to famous, blond, high-heeled career counselor).

'Pesticides make the butterflies in my tummy cantankerous,' Prince Harry, before each Royal Ball.

The hairpin keeping the grandma hairstyle of thirteen year-old Roxy Cullen together: 'It would be really lovely to insert the long filament of my ebony soul into the eye of each person here at INVADERCON.'

'I would rather just sit here peacefully watching this candle,' I say, in 1846, on the porch of a farmhouse – 'and speculate about the exact location of its fuse.'

'Candles are pee shy,' more than one flame is purported to have vouched.** 
A member of the audience stands up and observes in a booming voice that the bionic clamper, her main distinguishing attribute, is missing from the lower half of Oprah's face.

'It is rather unsatisfactory to have a pie chart made in one's honor,' the famous blond career counselor assures her husband, stroking his hair gently.

'Can you teach me how carpet-bombing works? And how I might be able to do it? Please?' a mosquito asked the stunned and – some say – devout and charitable landlord of a Brooklyn tenement building, the mosquito's slurper coiled in a bizarre rendition of obeisance, apparently aware of whom he was speaking to, and requesting this disturbing favor from. 
'Motor-reflexes can serve MORE functions than just inserting cute subliminal pauses in the movements of characters in stop-motion animations,' an actual character in a stop-motion animation asserts, bitterly.***

*Source has been shot for saying this, on account of sounding intolerably woolly.
**Scientifically unverifiable to the point of libelous.
***Said stop-motion character has subsequently, since this writing, been gruffly dragged off the set of King Lear.

Friday, March 25, 2011


I'm too cheap to
leave any convenience store
without a cigarette burn

sometimes I leave with a torn-out page from
a copy of Alienology's They Have More Than Two
Tits edition: 'The enthusiasm of future aliens to study
underwear stains will wear off faster and faster,
in inverse proportion to the amount of
stained underwear'

I talk to myself mostly when
I'm in here, but you, elevator,
you disgust me

my race: the inevitable
constituent of paint thinner;
the STD cartoonishly curtsying,
and the antibiotics making it do so;

bedroom substrate’s
troll isotope

'OK, so you ready to talk prices?'
the Zulu real estate agent asks me.

Though I still reel from the deep-brain yo yo-ing
of my building's elevator – and the dirty soliloquizing
I was sure was meant to contain something important - I have
successfully forgone any further discourse with the intelligent
ecosystem beneath my carpet.

'Just remember this hut – it is
only a prototype.'


Re-rez Doris over the barber pole. Breadcrumb and dead fly intervals in unobtanium. At the mill, mating habits dramatically. Error Message on the leaves the splintered-awful Photon Zone. Every time I see flu stop raving. Gits can still turn tricks – just think thank you and grab, run for, sit in the superconductor at your local opera. Smalltown heebies.

Lotus resuscitation platform. In another time and place a masked playact home invasion. Drive-though superfluity shopping. Mini hyena with finger on the genetic buzzer. Autopsies uploading panorama, warm geodesic fanning - your waist back underground. Code factory pickup line glitch, bad for the braincells - with a crucial Ugget in the rape van busted.

Thursday, March 24, 2011


and elsewhere chemistry
the skrotted outline of bludgeoning
with margck deliciously clique
and peephole-Diaries flapper

insert frosting extremely dizvid - stockings everything I say - the movements:

ed foom-zim
ed foom-zim
ed foom-zim
ed foom-zim

dem version II knickknacks post-Jesus 
then putting up all my content
in skrotful of friendly 

of HBO doodle inflatable
raconteur poshly over there also
really into the idea of graphs

3-D is an acquired taste BUT
forever augmented reality, appearance
too blocky editing

currently unavailable dimension sporting enough cruncher

unfortunately laarmpick nick




fridge magnets enzomplified as Han Solo
those tall bugs in your basketball folder
controller for dance party goob-lier

her cufflinks drilsch blue the final touch

to robo-Houdini

Wednesday, March 23, 2011


berserker of some kind of smooth, on godzilla botox
the impressive contentious arguable earthiness of whom, dying down in a dust devil of whimper
care beams sphincterous, through the Unholy Mall - bolt at the same time stored in warm embrace of wife kids randomly lobbied carbuncle
barn moonlight mooched, nerd Steven Seagal quickenings awakenings rather sad saddenings
back when This Death happened by dentist chair
hot pants taken the wrong way; then the right way
the equation had never really needed sugar
hurriedly taking a Fuckberry out of your pocket street cafe windows ring seconds long, in cooling aftershock
I struggled against the book blurb's omnipotence: the mindbend whisperings
inescapable habituators of the last crevice crack gulley corner crater pore of gray matter
suspiciously eyeballing X-rays and all Marvel's lost-in-space punctuations
we need Generation III weddings to urgently scale back toilet paper in X through Y Quadrants
so you've dynamited a whole om nom nom nom
ole Saturn, misfit, friend, SEO expert, carouser, sodomite, hallucinator -
Oreos-scaping kilometer upon kilometer under the blanket by torchlight
new broken little bits of cartoonish
bouquet of India that makes your malaria seem dynamic
and elsewhere barf was pencil lead


Cold Feet Up Close And Personal In Burial Lights
Arcade Playfully Rolled Into Ball
Philosophical Tusks Grandfather Clock Grew Overnight
Getty Images Is Swan Dismal
With Truly Valiant Effort The Dumpster Was Finally Salvaged
Sour Continues To Be Very Intense
Apartment Block Piece Of Mind
Life On Mars Continues To Be Extra Conversational
Ghoul Turns Heads At Beach

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


Hello ground, you're not very fussy about dem bones.
It is so as a rule, my child; it is my custom. Tiny tiny
constellations 'customarily' flash mob very indiscriminately 
and clumsily, too.

They and us Gizmo the biblical way!
Heroes are just hot-tempered apparitions of prawns, you'll see.
But they're all one! They are
'It.' And so one day
'It' reaches the end. The end is
Like what do you experience when holding a baby in your hands? 
You mean Jenga in fast-forward?
Yes, that's it.

See, Billy - your neighbor is actually already in your hands.
It wasn't them waving as they drove by –
the instant your leaf-sucking machine backfired?

[Hint: It wasn't their car that backfired.]

Backwash something of everything once in a while.
Try hands-on lunch. I heard it's a scream. And
afterward, you'll see that all jiggles – or all things that
jiggle, even titties - look alike:


Busker swagger in PlayStation earrings, chiming in –
talk to everything that becomes deaf when
shrunk to a cubit. Performing on National TV wrapping
contaminated collectibles – your uncle's pearl G-string
and espadrilles.

Hello, hero? How does it feel?
Fan letters – 'hello! hello!' - eventually lethargically
find every slob on every potato couch -

All are eventually lethargically 'heh heh ugh! ugh! yes! yes!'


Skype has blown up the book discussion club.
A coconut has fallen on our collective yellow toenail.
I am still bragging about owning two copies of the tropics;
certain circuits of the sock and underpants blizzard
in my white suitcase are straying and regrouping to form
their own society of blue tribespeople. They think of
their new home with pride: i.e. 'Monkeys in the Time
of Spaceports.'

Our technology is just a way for invisible knots to
measure the fancy shortcuts in their hugs. Laypeople should stay OUT
with stupid questions such as: 'DIY, how did you become
involved in prostitution?' A cynical worm only wants to see
the world for its leaking ceiling - the less boisterous,
pompous side of the asshole toupee.
Scratch, cynical being – scratch where it's faded.

Says I raising my arm and dangling it limply in front of everyone:
'Intellectual tassels are so fucking helpless!' Digital Time and the
beautiful bashful segments of its sarcasm. Mind-paralysis
responding Dexter-like to your ugly unpractical custom kitchen.
Murmurs in the living room. 'Hey babe.' [Midwest Beavis - cardboard cargo pants
and Ruben Goldberg fuck-off luggage – what is not to love?]

Vlogging the evening's boogers,
who also eat their young,
the candy reanimated by pure evil.

The hatchet so far has been a huge shocker.
Tonight, I am not going to be the one who begs
sympathy for the stranded souls of Smallville.

Monday, March 21, 2011


Once you get to know its favoritism, the lobster roach isn't so hateful.

The former jealousy and sense of rejection becomes its own dubious anti-jealousy and anti-rejection – even with the roach's attention diverted fondly toward one's loathsome cousin or tennis rival.

A bread loaf takes up the last square inch of space on this century's most controversial sex tape.

Cincinnati with its tired heels sinks into a cold used Lipton teabag.

In the forbidding Garden of Spongebob, yellow perforated sleet holds one's hand.

Hydrant-Face Ford Double-Cab masturbates languidly to advertisements of its forebears because it's exotic to do so.

Particularly to the 'Hydrant-Face Double-Cab Badass Psycho Motherfucker' Ford model in a trite 60s Frankfurter Algemeine ad placement.

Buddhist ska is now trending; it embodies a few of the hardest aspects of trying to moo when the moment least calls for it.

One's personal space fills with solitude.

At crematoriums an unknown perfidious force sometimes damages the ovens' drape runners.

Bingo ear infection and other gems.

The cure of breathing deeply in and out mystically and mindfully.

In parodies, this is often spoiled by a damaged navel spring.


oh insectoid butler
such crisp discretion

deep-voiced poop

burglar killed by Angry Birds
hurt and mangled on a single mood the
Stacey I know who likes to
on occasion politely
tea-dunk Casper

litmus fetish -
a pale amorphous unbaked rather delicious

supernatural European sometimes his
morning erection complains
about having no life job career friend car money

sonnet catches

fingering vanilla leftovers the flytrap which
needs to be replaced every week watered dusted fed Igor's
growing asthma heckles

what the plot
of Natural Born Killers centered on:
she said 'the unbelievably hard to find home depot'

it behooves you
to know
this: the plot

the mold underneath the couch
the shade underneath the fake tan which floats

what I trapped in the corridor
in my nightgown with my paraffin lamp
did not fit in a
big enough power adaptor

ATM atmosphere
levitating on pools of dust makes me weep
the skin on my
rapacious muzzled pet ferret's elbow
makes me weep lust-howl

the smile of the screaming banshee's cheeks carved from
green bone cocktails sneering quotation marks sibilant noises

eschew plectrums

Saturday, March 19, 2011


the abyss
made an impression - wobbly lines in a blender - but
I froze my yoga on account of a wooden leg. It wasn't
my wooden leg,
and what it had stepped in wasn't
dogshit –
it looked kinda
hirsute -

not my swath of WASP in a hammock
Inspector Gadget meets corduroy Haute Cuisine is more
outtake from a faux horror documentary
impacted its contours

piqued my interest

circus contraption squeak
henceforth figuratively a lonely ninja star wheeling above
the trees
corporeally the grimace of a
ventriloquized Vespa

when last did umbrellas have their own religion?
how long have the Ten Commandments been marinating
in diesel?
your intuitions are weird, naked swimming -
me, I was


SHY, man - the pale kid telling the ratchet exactly how much it sucked
the glaucus pallor of my shoulders: from bad to worse
I longed to be in Abortion Heaven deep
in its gauzy considerations
the angels

playing fetch with the nerve cells of a huge ten-toed mole

Friday, March 18, 2011


how do you look underneath, coke pastie?

what colorful wart-roots, flagella, wires and stringlets hang and writhe from your equatorial saucer?

Joseph Conrad called you the catalyst behind the caterpillar sailor/writer's evolution into a sleek, shimmering hyphen

did you sprout the burp of sainthood
as accidentally marked/branded/boxed/exported/anally
smuggled/plagiarized/ripped off/and
finally canonized country-western lyric?

oh, the passage of its distillery – pock-marked pirates Autotune-chewing;
they've kindly assisted Molly's fusion with marshmallows;
philosophic pagans in penile smoking jackets –

pretty sure this scene was killed by a mattress

did Hemingway say math isn't fun if you employ Haitian dinner etiquette?

without a coke pastie on his neck, he was just a meathead misreading smoke signals, a sneezing coughing hawking
smart-ass aberration
kudos to fucktard citizen Freeze Pops! 
me, I can sit for 8 hours straight in futile argument with my environment;
I see everything boredly, because my irises are unmanned;
my soul wants to audition for a part as fractal in the time-lapse pirouette;
it is so sluggish because I am the co-founder of mud
designer of the 8-bit Wellington Gumboot battlegame

Thursday, March 17, 2011


the enamel cuticle of the famous sock puppet
the odd green glow of survival 

survival of the gesture (of the bird, etc) of the obscene horizon-scanning sun-in-eyes post-T-off golf stance 

such things last right into drug abuse and boredom -
into acquaintance with the soft depression
of Feral Miss Piggy's tasseled terminal
a not OK request of the imagination -
breeding ogles under the hedgehog visor

you'll know it when a choir of predators goes on snog gear
speak easy bullet point mastication
what shit went down last night behind the bottles
in the mirror of the bar?

listen here, wifey - wearing garters strung from the radioactive cat-gut of male fantasies is one thing - but why would you be so shameless as to claim the reality tv freak asteroid jacuzzi splotch was meant as a fucking joke?

tonight I'm begging you, oh crinkled Lottery Ticket
I don't care as rapacious meme as lucky charm aspirin
together as a fresh pair of microwavable
women's WWF

galactic M&Ms transmitters
licking the Whereto Steering Wheel

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


On the terrace I took the olive from her hand and drank it down
with a sip of Simone's auburn hair -

The dark sweetens the flashlight pulpy. Luminary of the
rich couple at the next table's Cocker Spaniel's wingnut unconscious –
their relationship's most famous and exemplary braincell
bowing to the poetic acne of the bellhop's typewriter

That's why you grope around in the dark, babe. That's why
the luggage racks are being so adorable. She and I vanish behind
the eyelid of the hotel, and on the electric stove burner, Kabbalah
is smoking hot

We both concede that we can just feel the ocean itching to breathe


collide her coffee. chasing the sunburnt

handmade barefoot now. cheapskate bunnies split-mauling



Jung is harassing me. daydreams rinse with extinction

fluoride chokers

boarded up Dementors. mourn me old piece


run with us room-temperature. charm my own bed


pop in and aggregate

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