Wednesday, June 15, 2011

IN WHICH A GORILLA COMPLAINS ABOUT ITS BAD POSTURE

The kitchen sink arcade used up all the breath
of an altar's aluminous siren. Above it
hovered a blimp uncomfortable with its own, flammable sideburns.
Anorexia seepage, not my sunscreen shriveling light.

I'm a pale guinea pig
slowly acclimating to the warmth of a group of American tourists.
Corkscrew disfigured, you
be, for a few minutes, the strangest shape turned

in the mind of a cross-eyed
Borzoi.

A membrane of garish spectators balmed
in something bleary and indifferent
in case the gorilla gets insecure
and thinks it's Donald Trump led to the slaughterhouse – I thought
I told you not to stare.

Mourning the dependence
of an insatiable floppy disk
truffled between its maternal spheres, the sandwich steadily began
to eat the genetic information contained in its
own seeds. Birdseeds.

Out of a tube of toothpaste crawls an abortion.
Its aesthetic isn't everybody's cup of tea. But I heard it's getting quite
proficient with its unicycle and the need it feels
to flaunt this on MySpace
has earned it just a few less hits than the skeleton's pose
reconfigured every few minutes on that site with a cattle prod.

The resurrection of Lazarus took place in a chemical lab,
for he was a sticker peeled off a sheet of wax.
A Soviet Mickey Mouse
whisked up in a medical experiment,
connected to a clunky apparatus via a tentacular weave of instant noodles
and three USBs. 

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