Saturday, December 3, 2011

NO ORDINARY GUTS

Making pancakes – and pancake masks
in particular – a safety tip for if you're going
to be using a crowbar:

Do not swing through the two points on the pancake
at the estimated areas behind the pancake
of your pancake-making buddy's eyes.

But would it be such a great loss –
if their eyes broke into shards?

Porcelain eyes shine through pancake,
they are hard to miss, but with porcelain eyes,
nothing can be told apart
from anything – neither you from others, i.e. in
public, when for some reason you crave
to be told apart from other things,
badly. Porcelain eyes are useless except for
being beautiful.

Also in this crowbar-related accident your friend
might die.

And then come back to life.
Who cares.

But it's gross.

Resurrection after a week or month is gross –
if you've been waiting this long

for the traffic light to change, at the traffic light,
not in your car,
but in a hospital bed you've

accidentally weaponized – with your stink,
your corpse gas, your green volcanic
pustules.

Discharging a load of phlegm
is like scraping your esophagus
across a dump truck.

A group of gambling
hobos staring with their
eye sockets: with their mummy anuses.

Shuffling their cards
sounds like very fine, dusty diarrhea...

Moving slowly past shop windows large
windows actually large
televisions; hobbling past
the advertisements:

a transparent embryo advertised
for smuggling stuff in
startles its pale, sickly, greedy
one-person target audience.

'I am smuggling something I've forgotten what
it is
is it
important?'

'I'm feeling a bit better knowing I've cleverly
bullshitted myself into believing I'm
feeling a bit better!'

At the nearest restaurant on the menu:

a pill

with a hole
in it.

'Our washing machine make
tiny pill from fistful of bones.'

At the waiter's words it is very
easy to crumble into yourself, like
wanting to cry when receiving
sympathy. It means even your clothes
have gone mad. 

In laundry that has been institutionalized –
in mad laundry –
viscera play with themselves,

and now I know they are no ordinary viscera
they are an octopus cosmonaut,

way more mad than
the homely guts of e.g. Bigfoot.

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