Monday, December 5, 2011

NECROPHILIA

Weird-dream crusts ironed out.
They make make-believe roast
under local anesthetics.

She also felt the cold entanglement
while watching Tron–
her own special mind trick
[which] consists of fingers.
The aesthetics of such a cadaver walks
the fine line between Elizabeth Taylor
and a cordless icebox.

I shit myself
a delicacy –
[from] an inborn seedless
spray can.

Necrophilia contains
Ewok hygiene's
possibility [of] nut beer.
Despair inspired by a metronome.

It has moved; I shouldn't eat anything.
The sound now
a mere shell of the former doorbell/
a false prophet's t-shirt.

On the slab spatially elastic,
mining the soul's gazebo.
Absinthe reindeer aura –
666 mise-en-scène.

Like the embarrassing cliché
[of] the passive-aggressive shoplifter.

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