Tuesday, March 1, 2011


The gurney, if she turns her head, offers sceneries
to the weird girl, heaps of algorithm her life in binary,
layered lasers wanting everything – at times
melting within the Buddha canister moaning
‘Now my pullover is so good, I’m going to give
it to a sick body the sick body who said she wanted
it!’ No more sculptured sunburn, feeling like
Emily Brontë’s talcum foot on her bed the silent claw 
at the valve sharing orbits.

No more suppression of China, home's homemade creation.   
A samurai-conducting gurney on which to teach
the sick and the lonely to love in every avenue,
with much yodeling underlying convictions that
that was an odd thing to say, i.e. ‘Burger King
interferes with the world’s fastest group sex.’ Vistas in
which pancakes are given more room for maneuver;
cephalopods in worlds. The type of uncertainty elevated
to exactly your height gurney height. Even though
you’re not sure whether it’s just Chlamydia’s paranoia
or genetically modified Earl Grey.  

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