Friday, December 30, 2011


without excitation of the fork in the ice age,
a lot of samples of condensation
lie coiled within the pizza's
special zone,

but a comet decapitated
passers-by, their foreheads'
atlases shallowed

the first caveman brothel had a
cutout imitation
of a fire; geometric patterns
tilted so your brain ended up suffering
bunker parallax,
dirt-spit in your eye

abruptly, in the stone cold room,
a masked Mr. Potato Head
hologram: 'I am the ninja clitoris!'

the metrosexual dinosaurs' adhesive-filled
foot baths blamed for their extinction –
why else had
so many fossils been found
within arm's reach of fruit,
sirloin steaks, tubs of caviar, ice-cream –
as if glued to the floor?

but a time-traveler had seen it
in their public spaces:

not a diffusion of
bone-less winds, rather

an upskirt zoo-
cube - groomed until raw

so something else must have killed them

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