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.

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