Monday, March 7, 2011


my parents are proud of giving birth to a vibrant, and pretty stupid stem cell
a transparent hologram covered in motivational hives
invisible only after a dark, depressing shave

I’m sitting in the tiny oval cockpit of the Xanax snowflake poke
I’m a rich bitch swathed in puppy gear
this collar? these buttons?
this boa?
hundred percent puppy  
and somehow I am an interplay between depraved taxidermy and albino ribbons of glass
larval climax all over my chin, quite grim: all objects are seen first through the beard
my husband enjoyed the straight walk over, though – didn’t say hello or nothing
just suddenly climaxed, without provocation or anything

the capsules in your palm are trying really hard to be taboo
they’re not fooling anyone – I think they’re cute
like when he drops a salad bowl on my head
these vortices and parallelograms extended to the house in which I live
this house’s foundations, caught in one of Kubrick’s more gravid plots
and the moon buggy’s physical personal chassis – conducive to comic strandedness

bwa-ha, the crater in his left nostril flange mocked

at night her dreams are infiltrated more by strange garments than the strange creatures wearing them – or she notices them in that order: first the straightjackets, then the inflatable ambitious squid wearing them  
tortured toothpaste is striking exaggerated poses
a voice like sighing MRI says that it is the work of the first-aid Transformer kit:

for the walls are owned differently here – leg-kinked, palsied private collector’s barcode Banksy, ironic flirtation squirming on the Band-Aid
it’s now all about aerosol making up the fog around the gorilla handprint

for each morning her husband wakes her up by placing all his fingers around her face, softly


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