Wednesday, November 30, 2011


In Moscow, on their Facebook there, egg avatars bob up and down
to influence the way they'll hatch.
Choose your own setting and means: in a greasy tool shed,
your egg's cartwheels may ensure a benevolent Tzar
would crack open its pocked cyber shell with their
version of a hammer or ax, the version they use there.

In the bottom corner of the screen –
Charles Darwin makes his famous beloved O-face.

A heavyweight champion.
An ululating towel that pwns Broadway.
Are you telling me these fantastic hallucinations
are all rooted in a gristly cyber molecule, in the boring toxin
in the vein of Russia's Facebook?

Brain damage? Alchemy? Or, closer to home, a small green smiling pea
sitting deep in the inner recesses of a flabby X-Factor contestant's bellybutton?

If you call being hit by a flying sock at
Jurassic Park an hallucination, but you're not really convinced,
you'll nevertheless not be prepared for the actual technical explanation –
namely, you're full of shit. The 'sock' was actually the
result of a toilet paper dispenser malfunction in
the gorilla cage at the local zoo. A wet warm gorilla shitslap behind
the head too mundane for you?

How about this: The only remarkable thing any alchemist has ever
come up with? Fucking cardboard. And when you
fuck me [my ethnicity is not determined though], actual turbulence in
the great subsequent chalk-belch
will be pretty visible and distinct and pretty.

Jurassic Park is real? And HIV is real? And Walkman sterilized countless
men and women by peculiarly altering their gaits? And right
now there's a group of beautiful young people on a wheelless,
cabriolet restaurant bus somewhere eating food ethnically indistinct waiters
come by to sprinkle pepper over from offensive-looking pepper mills?
And if you starve fecal matter of the swamp beneath its glaze
depictions of the cloud's bottom from which it had unceremoniously fallen
will subtly, beautifully distort?

And there are flying socks?

Just not these kinds of flying socks.


Dominoes falling backwards emit a weedy rustle.
To measure this burden, we arrange the posse of false idols
on a bathroom scale.

The voice of God floats in the sound of fire,
of the cirrus-white stretchmarks – formed via harsh
environmental stresses – in crime scene tape,
in that uselessly genius region of the mind that,
for shits and giggles, categorizes
postal codes according to number of horns.
Only when postal codes are deer-bodied.

A salty, perspiring sound that makes the Alien facehugger
quiver with vulgar oyster delight.

In Kermit the Frog's exquisite keyhole eyes
can be seen a dangerous bent toward introversion,
self-perception delightfully pervasive in
that part of the frog brain that controls
obliviousness – self-worship trained as a submersible cork.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


For a very long time now Houdini has been standing
behind the trellis door of his cage with a perplexed look
on his face. What is burlesque and why will I be one day credited
for inventing it?

First, I must be a sloth in time-lapse: jerkily transcribed and
arrested in roadkill draw by number. In Pixar's timeless, inimitable format,
my initiation in a parkour tribal ritual. Injected with black hole resin,
the culture of a random venereal disease, a gallon of Vaseline,
ten thousand silicone nano-sticks extracted from my own
nipples, and then finally spewed out the other side [of this door]
in a mass of amorphous goo.

Monday, November 28, 2011


A quiet buffet – yet a
complicated hollow.
Scene of the soon-to-happen robot uprising.

My SUV cauliflower hybrid.

I wanted the horror movie to contain a lot more wheelchairs –
was I asking for too much?

So remove my beak. I figure
that since I'm in this concentration camp – since
I'm here, in this condition – I'm ready
to bottle-feed.

Growing and settling horizontally – I'm good.
Settling into a neat parking lot of spooning hormones –


let us now try to telepathically restore sanity. A new,
9mm Satan splurging on comfort; Dolce & Cabbana PEZ dispenser
slackly in hand.

Traces shapes. The shapes hiccups can manipulate one's wiener in the sand.
Coke dandruffing the Milky Way. A quiver triggered
in the old-man jowls of the centipede.

Sunday, November 27, 2011


Certain cosmetic disorders that we have
and that we share with other things are
beneficial to my partner and I.

Our convex intelligence fits well into any warped ebook.

Tetris blocks and the fibers poking from
their aging graffiti – the sun's surface's myriad colors and sounds
and smells rot beautifully on such streaked, blurry gravity.

I cut my nails; the damage was extensive.
Neon fingernail clippings and the sounds of disembowelment
and decapitation that tended their removal – i.e. sensory material
my synesthesia typically disassembles in poop.

We have evolved certain bodily functions useful to meth addicts
as biomechanical gadgets. 
Crayons unearthed in obesity; obesity with augmented suction cups.
Dancing dwarfs – and the exhibition of other curiosities – produced
inside the body.

A new form of newspaper that gives everybody else asthma.

My partner stood facing our bedroom wall for three hours
and got a bicycle via osmosis.
To others this would be a despicable feeling.

She doesn't want me to have some of her fingernail clippings.
Fingernail clippings should close into the body.

Unlike ephemera that spring open, that most prevent
dinosaurs from relaxing – cretaceous and topless – and sometimes
lead to ejaculation.

Friday, November 25, 2011


Cured or

Cursed or

Caused by


The weird sound of his wallet chain.

In fact the whole of Sherlock Holmes is taken up by other parts.
One side effect of his dress/manner: pissed-on stuffing.

Berlin: space aliens.jpg

Thursday, November 24, 2011


A meaningful conversation
Subdued the huge Toys “R” Us question mark
Standing sun-bleached and sprinkler-dirtied
In our flowerbed

On the patio
Explode your fanny pack,
A clinking most dangerous

The Mysterious:
Its neglect of personal care,
Out of bed-crazed

But sweet, Victorian GPS – it sounds when guiding us
Like singing in the shower.
For it sounds like a wet navel,

Pinching bubblewrap its circuitry
Reacts like amoeba androids' collective face-

Greasy on the fingers of the mind
Of the Lost Stomach:
It cannibalizes Muppets
When nauseous the stomach wears
its plush murder jacket 
Crowds make each individual of which it
consists nauseous

Accessibility of the sun's black glow
Like their innermost secret's door:
Toasters both hairy and hairless beneath the cognitive paper parachute

Man, shoppers make me miserable

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Show me the horrifically mangled fleshlight now please.
The traditional healer was ruminating a carrot in his cheek.
What the hell happened to this thing?
Who would do such a thing to a blameless object like this?

Answer: no one. It accidentally got driven over by a car.

I was at the dramatic unveiling of an ancient fossilized clubfoot.
How had the foot been dismembered? Gunpowder,
not the monstrous assortment of baked goods in the company canteen,
inspires grabbing.

Somewhere, a handicapped Wagnerian robot in lingerie
is begging on a street corner. A dishcloth over its missing
foot. This is how this unfortunate robot will probably lose its dildo, too.
You just have to sit there looking sad like that, dejected,
downtrodden – random things fall out of your possession.

The explosions ring in your ears for an eternity.

'I performed IT customer service uncontrollably,' it moans to passersby,
'then amped up my natural inclination to hold a grudge,
then to murder, then to suddenly turn nice again, then finally
to take a stroll, a nap, to awake and to start the whole sordid routine
over again.'

Very soon, it begins to mesmerize with its demeanor changing
by indiscernible degrees. It's crying again. It's holding a latte.
There's the slow-motion quality to the robot's movements,
that prevents it spilling its latte.

Psychoanalytic energies spent on a Sasquatch are mostly redundant.
The modern Sasquatch, a slumped sack of Happy Meal dead skin,
informs a cartoon about workaday stress with hilarity.

A vegetable – the plant, not the idiot grinning into the web cam – is bleaching,
really bleaching, its skin turning a ghostly white –

the scientists gathered around it announce somberly that the higher IQ
they've imparted to it must be responsible for the vegetable's weird,
lardy color.

This way, in every office around the world,
brainmatter craps all day.

Monday, November 21, 2011


'I'm pretending to be thankful for the convoluted series of flashbacks
I'm having now' – we're stoned, Eric has a bowl of chips on
his stomach - 'of the time my cock was stuck in another dimension -
I find myself now appreciating its navigational skills.'
'Shut up, haha.'
'I have such a strong dependency on the fragments, mainly, of video games.
'Just the beautiful fragments,' he adds.
He's too stoned to play video games in their entirety. He starts in the middle
of levels; blinking, time has elapsed and he's battling the final boss.
He retches inappropriately.
I'm squinting long and hard at the AK47 propped up against the television set: yeah, looking at it this way, it seems pretty insane.
Don't look at me that way!
We are bank robbers. We smoke a lot of pot.
'Eating these chips and feeling it on my tongue, it's like splashing a
fart – splashing many farts – on a big, old blimp.'
'I'd like to animate a tomato and splice it with artificial intelligence.'
'They don't make 'em the way they used to, do they?'
We talk about chips a lot.
My boyfriend's cock is pierced in a hundred places.
His cock therefore whistles. The inadequate terms he uses for his singing,
spade-shaped cock: 'Farmer.' 'Karaoke master.' 'Singing upright gentleman digger.' And one I could never understand: 'Nazi nigger.'
'Its health benefits through osmosis. Fucking's.'
The piercings precipitate the osmosis.
'A sock's burger retention – if one were to stuff a sock with a burger –
I'd appreciate such levels of perseverance.'
'Of the type of sock that retains. That doesn't leak burger.'
I'm so stoned, and I have a headache. It's effervescing. My head's
shampooing itself with a crowbar. It likes to self-medicate.
I think the brutality is unnecessary.
'I'm gonna sit outside,' he says. I see that he cannot get up.
'I think,' he says, 'I think for one's butt to freeze on cold stone is very wrong.'
'You can sit on the hammock.'
'I hate it when you say that.'
'I can sit on a hammock.'
'No one can. It's not a hammock if you're allowed to do that.'
Our human ancestors had whiled away their time deciding
whether to watch bacteria rotate on their dingy personal belongings
the whole day long, or whether to just fuck instead.

Such machinations also happen to be my and Eric's forte.
He's retching again. Inappropriately.
'I find it medically accurate that Tetris blocks squelch when they land.'

Sunday, November 20, 2011


Gasp for heartbeat hologram
after she
Carve out humans 

The new Adopter's love for

The source is a medical appliance, placed on rollers.


an accidental
containing a

Lost its Guy Fawkes-themed aesthetic, over time.

cotton candy's
conductive properties
a constructive criticism
of strange

Tried to rationalize trash's designated role in telekinesis.

broken down
occupants' sleep
to too

the figures emerged,
hunched, in
X-ray steam.

Saturday, November 19, 2011


Swiss shoes are bottomless, and therefore a very relaxing and
comfortable environment. But they keep the time obnoxiously.
Their ticking is obnoxious. A peculiar ringing, like a ray gun fired
down a well. The OCD synchronicity of one's strides.
Anderson Cooper digs Swiss shoes; but he can't afford them.
Instead, his one foot is perennially planted in a cupcake. Which he
also digs. Cupcakes. And make no mistake.

I was a lonely kid just like Anderson motherfucking Cooper.
The lonely kid sees his fishbowl throbbing.
Lonely kids see such things. It's from putting odd objects in
their fishbowls. A symptom of their loneliness.
The world repays us this way: avenues meet this way.
Collision courses can be arbitrarily set, but only when
nothing around us happens or when we don't do anything.

Take the time the bookshelf came into violent contact with the antlers.
No one in the vicinity of the bookshelf OR the antlers had
been doing anything at the time. No one had been reading any
of the bookshelf's books.

Give me five minutes to commit cliched vices on the street corner.
See the slew of events I'd set off this way.
Every action has its reward. Oh, how I love the mathematics behind
tripping over an object in the road – a tricycle lying on its side
on the pavement, etc. - and falling on my mouth.

Just a year ago, I was an ugly baby growing in the back of a limo.
I wasn't conscious for the most part. But felt the drama of my development.
Each stem cell – snugly cored with a sleeping pill.
The drama of my monstrous slumber. My supermodel grandmother sitting in
the back with me, in her bikini. A Scientologist who shared Scientology's
bitter disdain for pepper spray. Who scratched all over, as if she had fleas.
Whose vision crawled under its flaming rash.

With knives and forks pinned into our eyes we may see in terms
of light years. The human cornea can arrange cutlery locally.
Such vision not surprisingly makes our eyes bleed.

Mild home items, still nefarious in how they bounce back
to their original locations after use. Spontaneously.
Without first waiting to be washed.
That is why our eyeballs mud up suddenly after eating so much,
and why, afterward, equally suddenly, we see the Millennium Falcon's long blue tire tracks.

Friday, November 18, 2011


And that was that.
The Holy Bible had spilled its deepest ugly doll.
I wasn't even scandalized.
In one passage, I read how Championship Wrestling obviates the necessity of tendons. Marty McFly was the hero of the story. The resolution
of his heroism increased in proportion to the disco frog acidity
litmus-flashing in median strips along the backs of his legs
just below the exhaust pipes of his jetpack.
Also, the Bible says McFly will rise from the dead as
an animated gif. A jerky aerial performance that will be advertised –
thousands of years later when our technology has improved –
in the uncanny, repetitive alignment of a pillow and a billboard.
A sample of actual drinking water will be the first known scientific attempt
at plastic wrap, in Ghana. Recycled/disposable Stormtrooper spectacles.
Furniture wound up in cozy-by-the-fire postures offering glimpses
of a mysterious snarling jawbone under their bloomers, in each household
where GANGSTA magic is practiced around a Venn diagram.
Feverish gossip in the coalmines – among zombie canaries. Each facially
outfitted with the same, nicotine yellow jawbone.
The sewing machine wrote the Holy Bible: which is peppered
with the terminology of social networking. Stands there bloated,
its safety off. On the belly of the Lego man it will create next
will rest a Lego machete, a form of Facebooking definitely
exploring the inner chambers of his expression.
In his head it is either wet or dry; either the analog mechanism
of the Lego man's thoughts stands knee-deep in mud, or indeed
this is where his weary thoughts have gone to hang up their socks.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


Anime family life's smell
reminds me of the forbidden
skull milk product.

Anime father shot himself,
Anime mother's motto was 'Headless in his suffering.'
'Like waterboarding a shirt.'
'The dalliance is a waste product.'
'Brimming with protozoa
is dangerous.'

A mashed kitten personifies
inertia in the music of ABBA, as it does
in the babysitter-chronic metropolis,
every surface of privacy
banged by its brain power:

That's an order, says such traffic.

The tendency of a sealed contraceptive
to pocket-morph into seminal mist. Of an old person
to try and sanctify themselves
with the dubstep. Irresistibly luscious
only in full frontal. Turned ninety degrees:

On any given night, hungry vacuums in
the babysitter's infection sip milk through
a flat mask.
Slowly withdrawing lips

from a scenery first wan, then overcrowded with
fountains of blood. 

Wednesday, November 16, 2011


A bit of unclean invocation and a cup holder,
and you have the entire set of Star Wars, actors, droids,
ships, helmet sweat. Fake? One lousy PEZ dispenser
can procure gallons of Hulk vomit. Is it fake?
A bit of angel undernail rot, harvested from grimy pages in
the comics section, laundered and worn as sort of panties –
the librarian's special exo-church; sitting in them
reading, something brings her back to her origins, something holy.
A beautiful stem cell glare around the region of her crotch.
Is this fake?
The cowboy wears fake socks – but they are not fake.
Or are they? They ought to smell comparatively OK, or at least they ought
to smell like nothing, instead a mixture of subway smells billows around them.
The voice of a kettle keeps his stupid horse immensely bloated.
The horse is definitely fake.
A pocket knife was all the geneticist needed to cut his housekeeper open,
and a blue-red cyber coil subsequently sprang up at him –
driving home the conclusion that the housekeeper was fake.
A computer simulation, maybe. The whole DNA looked suspicious.
The whole fucking geneticist himself looked fishy:
tombstone haircut post-sex pizza anomaly. That's some fake shit
right there. Mood-bombed synapse right-click. Imminent infinitesimal.
Imminent birth. Small but steadily coming into being.
For what? For whom? For his housekeeper? She only likes computer games. 

Monday, November 14, 2011


I jotted down the date on a calendar my lawnmower lost its shit.
Psychotic confetti viscerally bubbling up –
the slaughtered watermelon in 8-bit stemming from dark dreams
hitting the window leaving its irremovable pale-pink gore.
Only many years later, I licked the window. And got sick.

Therapy in prison. In a controlled setting.
Observing its placid expression, I was reminded of preserved meat;
I thought of brain damage hanging from hooks.
Its nipple-like haircut on the pub-green gas tank: really,
nothing this closely ever resembled a barbershop maggot's.

Mood of user of lawnmower typically heightened.
Mood of user typically oscillating between
marching band and spaceship mini golf –

but no more!

A seriously cool prison mugshot of the lawnmower, though -
so notorious around the neighborhood,
one seriously badass animatronic pig skeleton –

before it was fed countless placebos accessorized
with prison food – attempting the futile voyage
into the deeper regions of the beast's psychic botulism.

Though by now a mummy and positively repulsive, any
social situation to the toe it had lopped off, meanwhile,
is an opiate; the toe can scarcely move, so cripplingly
gregarious it has become, since its dismemberment.
Even though social pleasures to the toe don't easily cloy,
the next morning it's still so many wrinkles in green leather.

14 January 1996.

Saturday, November 12, 2011


The warm toilet seat morphology,
Super Mario's bumprint at its most distilled.
Not the grossest thing to ever follow
the princess into a bathroom.

Lab-grown malevolence – whether merely in
the form of this peculiar haunting, or variously manifesting
as personalized Hefner bathrobes plucked from graves,
very Hobo DIY – never sleeps.
And the Eureka Moment: toadstool piss emptied
into Xbox demon bucket.

Wavered a sec when said toadstool snapped underfoot.
Removed the berserk neurotoxin from the
gentle powder and rolled it into a
pale statue – voodoo nutrients rendered quite upskirt dog toy. 

Friday, November 11, 2011


Do you think they're fake,
Blade Runner? Do you think
they're incapable of real kindness?

Look at the garish thrush, caused by
realism doodling deep 
into the replicant's mouth.

Automotive, your crotch soaked through
with Chinese takeout, rising
on a parking lot from the deep.

Viaduct cables cutting light from a moon not
unromantic in her body –
fluorescent G-spot nebula.

The affliction of a
porn star Ninja Turtle, its shell
an improbable gag for a larger underground.

In silent reflection press
a synthetic aroma, cook pajama pants
with an eating disorder that

loads a fast food chain's grotesque finger,
empathy burping blank.
A nervous breakdown in your Stormtrooper shell

rattling empty because loose BBs are the devil in you.
Ritual is cement. Curb all that's missing
from being nice. Redeem yourself, jerk.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


In Mordor lived a crackpot visionary,
who sought a formula for cotton wool to heal around a soldering iron.
The system was badly perforated, gradually bodily waste
began drooling down the urban sensory nerve -
it was impossible to send his feelers out
Peeping-Tomming on the buxom women
of Hobbiton. Surreptitious suffering behind foggy monocle,
one eardrum, sallow, whimsically popping, and proving totally uncontainable
at its lonely altitude. The day you die: something stupid leaving a trail of blood.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


Only resident soon will be an anthropomorphic British clam
Planet acne's tableau relentlessly peppered
Torrid sun floating up from another level of asbestos
Aphrodisiac tuned across ages but a poisoned pea
leads to stringy skeletal epilepsy blindness cataract-
kilowatts of cappuccino dreck
Masturbation cavorting with variations of depressing spacesuit
Spinach accentuating Popeye's pores is very very nice for him
The terrarium, the patch of green, the crater of clay,
that tennis ball bicep is supernaturally hoisted from

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