Sunday, July 10, 2011


I take care of my pet monocle

I gather its pixels of pee with brush and scoop – part of the shocking phenomenon of a bladder growing on the whiskered tip of its dachshund moue –

Expanding to eventually take over its whole goddamn face –

my hairdryer's dark side, I won't go into it except to say,
on the plus side,
its Bosch filter deafens the user to the telephone sales patter that intermingles with and that depletes
the hot air of small fish

streetlamps emit DNA ultrasound, which actually comes from the sparklers drowning – with an unholy tingle along the thin neck of each sparkle –
in the marsh of their [i.e. the streetlamps'] genital herpes

Hate-waffle with its sensations passed on to a dog,
for safekeeping

Now simulate a loose-fitting t-shirt for us, Bruce Lee –
with the flex of your shoulder blades and the altering of your skin tone from pale Vincent Price gray to Volks Wagon yellow;

bring me a chess piece with its head cut off and beard ripped out as souvenir from your game of chess with an obsequious, thirteen-year-old Tarantino aboard the Graf Zeppelin, its alien copilot the walking embodiment of trash-talk

Then after lunch, when you're alone, in your cabin,
groom the hair-singed enamel flower of a big shit

which is your Hollywood brain damage, Bruce, by the way –
not your inherent forgotten masochism aesthetic,

electric purveyor of the light-absorbing tincture;
but the A-Team at their most palatable in the time I still wanted to be
an anthropomorphic lobotomy when I grew up;
those Yogi Bear stereotypes in the rape van; driving into the uncanny valley of a true Mobius sitcom plot-line; the phrase 'I love it when a plan comes together' a vulgar play on the original Swahili

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