Thursday, June 2, 2011


it first passed through the skin of odd furniture
before its own morphology could strangle a chainsaw

armed with it, I cruised toward an old rocking chair
my bad breath promptly coated the thing in oatmeal

when I tried to draw money, I could see that a crowbar
had been digging around for a while in the ATM's belly button,
it leisurely dabbled in the tie-dye horrors of its
equivalent of navel flint

my amphibian house guest was constantly trolling for
lumpy matter rolled up in a napkin by his dentist

the napkin couldn't speak but the resulting farts of its efforts
unfurled ten Burger Kings that stank up the place

I read and interpreted vulgar hive-mind messages from
my first set of cup holders, arranged into a cube not of this world

after eating cat brains from each comb,
I finally learned that I – I, OR everything else –
was related to a spoon

after all, bodily mutation was a joyride –
along the way you reveled in the sleaze of snuggling
next to janitors dressed up as chambermaids (or vice versa)

easily turned into the best part of my day
such as when I was a fetus wearing sunglasses that turned
misty over photographs of hot food

or whatever else they mistook my twin sister for

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