Tuesday, May 31, 2011

THUMB SMILEY


*
derobes milk. kinky, melting plateau.
cardboard black woman, skeletons of a peep show.
our maid working in a reactor. woozy from
mechanical Moses, his side boob teeth
alone: herpes crybaby, circus vibrant
deploying morph. fodder for wolf woven cognitive.

*
intrepid bounty hunter's matches, scissor-marching.
flamethrower jetlag shrug.
butchers cheap mold / lapdances my snot statue.
a traffic cone's hangover from abortions:
solar panel patting overload.
deficiencies in crack cocaine lie in the crux of hot
facial nourishment. chloroform finger puppet: gravedigger.

Monday, May 30, 2011

THE CASE OF THE BROKEN PARKING METER

Cartoon denizens have been buried alive in this mini-golf slum. One of them pierced their thigh on a splinter – actually it was a diseased earthworm. The saddest sight was a type of vegetable that grew only in sandstorms. How it waxed nostalgic about its weird growing pains! The last one (i.e. the last growing pain) happened little less than two hours before.

Since I'd incurred dementia from my visit to Ikea, I had the courage to stand up – still ankle-deep – and sketch in the little points booklet the metrics of a dry handjob. A bald head across which traipsed a special algorithm – the mind thinks the vibrations are phantom brush strokes, but to be spray-tanned by shrapnel is very real.

One's heartbeat soaked in oatmeal tumors.

The picture I drew turned out to be an infographic about gerbils, and how if you forced them to wear sweatpants, the latter would constantly leak tea. Apparently useless in all other respects, gerbils – like other vermin – can play the flute if you break one of their legs. They play the flute with that broken leg.

The shovel that fell to Mars realized it would be in for a big surprise, if one day it gathered the strength and the will to randomly start digging somewhere. It would turn evil, and it would take its chosen dark path too literally; it would miss what surgeons call the 'glow feature' of every clean, orthodox appendectomy – and in a bout of hotheadedness, it would encounter millions of black, shattering bubbles. None of them causing even the slightest spark when blinking out. Surprising the ever-living crap out of the shovel.

Fake orgasms by keeping deep in your vagina and/or penis bags of pus retrieved from an infected eye and/or ear wound. The bags when rupturing would scream in ecstasy, would, like an exposed brain, drool an equal amount of blank, brilliant austerity.

Truth.

My bird's personality disorder, in its fingernail birdhouse - measuring time in terms of the amount of lopped off fingers of prior owners – and according to the little parking meter in there with it, from which it believes it needs to spend fifty more years picking chewing gum, before the meter's dial would finally budge.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

MY GARDEN TOOLS AREN'T WHERE I LEFT THEM

'I recently had a very pleasant experience,' my aunt wrote on her blog. 'On an impulse I joined a one-man masquerade. I lay down in the street and pretended to be a speed bump. I will spare you the gory details, save to say my garden tools aren't where I left them. A common misconception about toasters: the glow of their inner mechanism calls attention to the lesions on very yeasty bread, and the undertones resulting of this interaction bare close semblances to the calls coming from the plumbing, which are as spooky as the cry of the creature desperately seeking a cave to follow you into. While getting beaten the shit out of in pool halls does not perpetuate the mean, destructive myth about depleted serotonin levels in the hideously deformed. Psychopathy uncoiling into the inhuman, asbestos embodiment of one painfully intimate O.J. Simpson. Only an experienced chunk of taffy, when aiming a hairdryer at it, mutates into a flesh-colored origami crane. I THOUGHT turning into a speed bump would be a terrifying prospect for my dysmorphophobia; I'd taken a placebo, ya know? - which I knew well and which I trusted – and already, in my head, it was ramifying into images of a translucent, if tire-tainted, carapace lying in the road, crammed up against the sidewalk. I looked like a glass condom. In one bed-time story, a scary omen got really heavily sedated – the boy hero had potted it with a dart gun or something – then collapsed on the floor and was revealed to be a bed sheet. Pfff. And in another, artificial resuscitation was administered to a robot that had swooned at a picnic. 'What are you worried about?' they demanded when he came to. 'The calculation machine you used to revive me – it is extremely valetudinarian.' 'Yeah? And?' They thought him an ungrateful prick. 'Well, I now have extreme anxiety over this and that, and one thing and another.' 'Such as?' 'Well...'

Friday, May 27, 2011

CHICKEN COOP SUPERNOVA

unwinding an ulcer
into dots, and watching
them float languorously on the surface

Pizza Hut is no
longer a 200km-wide
unused overgrown median
strip along the inner thigh

a monster's lobe
diesel-marinated:

these are
basically scrabble letters deep-throated,
chewed, and collated by a puppy
into the words *Blade Runner*

the part of your
brain responsible for keeping
deer antlers
in Tupperware

red shift
sunglasses, like
choking on a phantom limb,
when the irises return
to a point in time immediately
before the Big Bang

paraplegic movement
with respect to
tiny toe
death throes

coral gradient
combing of 3D pinpricks,
the view
is amazing

the
paint can's
numerical value

either a decryption of a chicken coop's
building specifications into
plans for a makeshift
supernova clobbered together
from radially pointing
wooden planks

or
a recipe for opium

but your hangnail no
longer has an appetite
for manslaughter;

but rather for suicide 
 
a new personal challenge
of turning the
grave site's delicious screw

therapy's shoe lining
twisted over the deathtrap
to cover it with
a parking lot

Thursday, May 26, 2011

NEW PHYSICS

A shrimp in early childhood.
When I learned forgiveness is an SUV.
That the necropolis can kill a man.
The mundane was my inhabitable hemorrhage.
Truffles and the insensitivity of others toward
their communication disorder –
a warning against the perils
of hobnobbing with vowels
that are perfectly spherical apart from
the marks of self abuse
that twisted them sigmoid.
Or into an obscenity. Sometimes,
when you gave them a little shake.
Plankton in its day made quite a splash.
Social tarantula: won in a raffle.
We were friends long before
the shapers of our identity
fell out of a bunch of dairy products.
Electrons as extruders of LSD to
make Rube Goldberg's yarn.
Ultimately, you'll see what you're
going to look like nowhere else
but in new physics. The
staff will all be very pleasant.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT

Birds, angels – what a bizarre mass of … of stuff circling above
the Hobbit's yard. It's almost impossible to find the narrowed part of
the crust. Because this is an impossible-to-bite-through pie...
Hobbit I love you, you, you. Party harmlessly, babe.
For these are the new apps you've downloaded to your iPhone:
laughing gas conniptions; rumors that reached the camel toe via a ping;
wholly or partly raked measles; chewed epithelium; and an
appetite-masking capsule.

My neighbor is junk.
The submarine in his garage is rubbish.
His idiot son and his Lego set is crap.
His John Deer hat is stupid.
He believes the Guinness Book of Records is still relevant.
In today's mail, he discovers and flaunts (waving the flyer over
the fence) this offensive spiel about hope as something worth
paying for.

'$25, 000!!!'

The flyer in the post is chock full of stories of hope.
Hope is the notion that, of all the UFOs built out of
a paperweight, a big nose, and a deformed internal organ, only
one could defy both gravity and inertia.

He leans on the fence and tells me this disturbing story about how
the Muppets sell all their towels online – no blood, just the towels.
The two separated. Like the soda machine and its
emissions. The one here, the other there. But next to
each other. Like the paparazzi and their assassination attempts
on bikes. Like relaxing and heroin. Like pork and its leak.
Like masturbation and a cotton candy pentagram.

'Hope, you see – the hope I'm willing to buy for 25,000 bucks? -
it's all about division.' The Hobbit literally shocks me with this
news. 'Does the flyer say that? Really?' He sighs, then shouts -
'I can't take it anymore, this feeling of a carrot with a gnarly birth defect!'
A goat stomps around in the leaves littering his yard;
it pisses in its own beard. Mending the division.

'I'm gonna disown my idiot son and eBay his moronic Lego set,'
the Hobbit says resolutely – and there's something strange about
him when he raises a fried chicken drumstick to his mouth and
bites into it. 'When I divorced my wife, ten years ago, it felt like a
caterpillar drawing a head trauma through its little caterpillar jersey.'

'It felt like shit. Disowning my son and selling his Lego will feel like shit.
Never taking my submarine out for a spin felt, and continues
to feel, like shit.' 
 
The Hobbit walks away leaving a string of unspoken expletives like a
telegraph message of splayed amphibian water prints on the leaves in
his yard. I return indoors thinking the rest of the day about the
forays and exploits of transcendental KFC.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

HEY I REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO GO TO THAT MEETING

cat jizz, awkward moment in immortality
flirtatious nails put the neat little flame, on a plank
so goes the nasal imagery of Kermit
mushroom musical, dirty worms issue notes that are sweaty
I (rainbow crud) sprang from a sitcom. I (moon mold wank)
dove into unfiltered devolution

a not disembodied Ice Cream. rather the rapture is a triangle of fog
Mao Zedong, rubbed balloons into hysteria until learning:
his mother is a dove

'they are crooks,' intoned the pink butterfly leaking all over the place
experiments on double chins, the apple you're not allowed to touch;
because it's the gross Sun because (it's a truck's plume
choking on its own dump)

Frangipani weird sleep, twinkle crunch
the possessed car dream-chased by a dog talks like
a demon drowning in a swimming pool
kissy lips serious expression, kitty cat why so serious?

soccer looks like fat asses (from space)
(on Craigslist, bluntly) expressionless posing suicidal clams
and the committee's invitation begins its toxic spread
it's a blessing, whose stem slowly grows out of a trashcan
by meeting's end humping us with its, knoll puke godcloak

Monday, May 23, 2011

YOU CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH THE NURSE

A cheap drink blocks the sun. A red, slit-eyed receptor is
rigged to the machine of the pimp. A urinal blends into
a vacuum cleaner. Its receptor also sees the blustery apparition
in terms of a very solid, implantable, pleasant sensation. 
 
My interpretation of the music box is that it emits in louche
waves. The droning of a dying potted plant overheard
in the office. The forgotten Pacific Ocean: a dead condom
conducting CPR on it. The misuse of a lizard inked onto a comet.
Illustrating to a group of school children decay's
needless bacon. And we, slow-glow bicycling.

The trapeze is unlikely to vibrate in real time. Instead of
snot swinging around the crossbar, you'd be a skeleton
decapitated with fur. An electrical apparatus' spray of
terrors metastasizing into a cartoon, stealing our souls
by regenerating a scarf. Like thermal imaging of a
mermaid on a treadmill, the eye disorder is still a
complete impracticality. The action figure's plastic sinews
taking its toll on the religious tolerance of nude people.
It is just Urban Outfitters being opportunistic with a
genome spork: it thinks it can make us feel special.

But with a burial casket lodged squarely in my vein,
I am inoculated against the tick of the clock, and
am now a happy ripple. The idle rich loves me. And I
explain to them my schadenfreude in D & D when
the nurse bites them, her contaminated drool representing
the machinations of a flooding garage, in whose gizzard
only I can sit and negotiate the electrified
buoys, in my K-9 tooth canoe. Compliments of NASA.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

CONTRAST

Tiny corner of the eye: where a white chair has been positioned
for a less yolky Netflix Far be it from me to tell you to
completely phase out perception But as the galaxy's body cavities
have curtains flapping in front of them, so our minds like privacy
And our guts … you always made me wish my stomach could be full
of lost and found objects My posture is defined by stolen throw-up,
like I don't even want my stomach filled with my OWN throw-up
Footloose Zen gelatin putting on Saturn's gadget: nobody cares
about the accordion biscuits of Facebook chat Taking a stroll with
Nazi crotch overlay I resist the urge to become plaque on the steps
like a hotel sniffing its own veggie Thought to be extinct, the
detour frying garlic sodomy - a very different kind of Jaws of Life
rendered in Doomsday apple-core Paralysis stimulates the same
region of the brain How it's like so visible, Kenobi – how jealous
you are – over not starring in the same commercial as the
Unabomber for amputee projectiles Yeah, duffel bag! Own up to
hibernating in your own systems and mysteriously going
missing in a gallbladder transplant Bleach in the
emergency room clicking growling, punctured, then
reconstructed as salmonella cum It lies there funny, she thinks
Thinking it's funny, but I was wearing NOTHING on my first date,
the time of this occurrence marked on the great almanac
with a little icon of a tree putting out for a telephone wire
The mall's different growls, clicks, and ruptures, and crunches,
and crunches, and crunches, are now mutually beneficial bosons
in whom the deaf examine blood intervals and religious contrast

Friday, May 20, 2011

ZOMBIE DOG WALKER

Should have seen this coming, thought the dog walker.
Standing on a scale and seeing reflected in the gauge only
the weight of a Labrador bristling under an existential jetpack.
Levitating in its theremin ozone.

The dog walker before mounting the scale had felt
wheelchair tracks down his spine. Scissors grouped together
as he drew closer, kind of relieving the burden.
What is organ rejection good for?

For cultivating a nice exoskeleton. Either my skull
is mutable or the gauge displaying this bastardization
simply proves the scale broken. He left carrying
his love child in a jar: 34kg of sonic morning breath.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

JADED EROTIC ART

She can see nuances in paint-by-number portraits. 'If you look carefully, if you tilt your head a little, in most cases you see a pulley system berserking around a beetle getting a vigorous massage.'

Thinking the furniture in his cockpit obsolete and therefore customized for a bordello, she finds it hard to walk away from Gundam – because of his odor of grandma and grandpa dust mites. 
 
'Because where is your tongue?' - the question that supported Simone's
rationale for finding my yellow tie uncannily anatomical.

The respiratory difficulties of canned vegetables in our pantry keeps us awake at night. The sounds of wheezing coming from there are reminiscent of a baby traveling at high speed through dense iron mesh. An assortment of hurtling chunks and the lampshade for a moment in time freeze – then meet in fantasies in which Simone and I engage in random acts of public shitting.

But we don't use real shit. We use babies. To advertise the internationally ignored existence of surveillance cameras that maliciously confuse ontogenesis with acts of public indecency.

Simone is on an ice rink staring up a guy's trousers. Her cheek is pressed to his skate. She is looking for a carousel horse with a sharpie protruding from the saddle.

And then she uses a ladder to catch a snowflake in a blender, to help Beyonce and the gallon of Listerine inside find each other in a cacophony of loud gurgles, in a China Town alley besieged by an early onset Ice Age.

We both once managed to gank an antique chair from Gundam's cockpit.

I have succumbed to using a mechanized battle suit – per her request – in order to look less like 'jaded erotic art' or an 'ashtray in the heather' heaving above her during intercourse.

We bought a real horse. It's not helping.

I don't like it when she calls her post-coital cigarette her 'post-lotus-bigfoot-tarpaulin-in-front-of-the-TV' cigarette.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

MAD SCIENCE

coarse 50-fishfinger range 
to capture

free drift tennis ball derriere
the pig obsessing over its
function as contact lens

time machine spew
composting into
parallelograms
of yeast infection

Muppet hair gel, 
seamless whorl 

a bit  
intimately 

the story of its leak
is 100% true – the Milky Way
is prone to
getting broken, so

we retreat to its
gruesome spare room
dilapidated cartilaginous:
spiders conducting
elaborate snooping

in our stride sacred
old beer in an
attitude of skin
cell bumper sticker

meat goes bad
chronologically, under
the Salmonella
spray can

giving Bela Lugosi
a mild, hokey
stroke uniquely
holiday-themed

the stages of grief
in a psycho whose
quill dwells in
seawater

ink can photoshop
fade throughout
delightful dildo
calculations

wanders back into
the Bic blimp's
abandoned,
alluring

plastic ribcage

tally-ho, mad science –
repurposing spacehumping
with the yaw
of your medication

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Excerpt from the forthcoming 'Dean of Daft.'

Aggressive elimination – by a naturally-occurring cosmic body – of the monstrous, multi-faceted bulk of what doesn't fall under the umbrella of 'minimalism'.
'Yeah? What then?'
'Lego porn! With all the teemers gone. The Pollocks, the Vollmanns, the Wallaces...
'So I think I'm gonna call the police. I don't care if it yells at me, I'm not gonna run errands for that … that thing out there anymore.
'One nostalgic old man – he lives down the street from me – he even devised a hologram of a grab bag teeming inside like a flagellaed pinata of insane bric-a-brac – nostalgic, sick of our world's stylized less-is-more-ness. Understandably. Couldn't get hold of good old, physical nonsense, so he went and made a garbled assortment of holographic nonsense.
'Fuck you, astral body hanging above our heads and sucking up the world's supernumeraries.
'Why don't you just swallow the whole earth, if you're so hungry for shit? What's a black hole doing out here in these parts anyway? Aren't there other, more interesting things out there in the galaxy to swallow than bulky home d├ęcor and grotesque post-modern literature?
'Hey, leave that! Give here!
'Give me back my haaaaaaaaa...!'

EMPATHY MORTICIAN

New slime video conferencing. Murder mystery
intolerably, messy and frightening. Had sat the
garden hose's mouth full of shark. Noisily butchered
over karaoke, silhouettes of orgasm droppings.
Reflecting us inside.

Depravity technician, empathy dynamite uncaring
churning – panders to the emotionally undone put
in you. The bird before it flies off, justified in
the automatic turd. What have you done? Wanting the
slashed throat whistle back in the doomed train set?

The trail of martial arts along the weeping wheelchair ramp.
Gut punch transcendence: strangely today, nostalgic
for bad taste supervillain waving his steak dinner
at the friendly atmosphere. Strangely, losing your dignity

Wii-pantomiming madness. Comfortable clothes
are flexible epilepsy – when suddenly the mouse trap
tastes all monk, puppetry wood rustling. A pitfall?
Has been choppy LSD badly, in a board game of All Wrong,

the family tradition gaping wide sparkling, light show phantom
roadkill, seething antiperspirant. All over the workbench.
A mortician's mind basement blizzard marauding pussy
but also playing the ukelele.

Friday, May 13, 2011

WHERE'S WALDO

My pet piranha's gingivitis betrays the age of the universe.
A thrill seeker with arrested development, and late onset delinquency,
an electromagnetic field puffs up around it – a clear skeleton
stands within a blurry silhouette.

'Levitate!' shouted the toy monger.
He ran out, drove to Whole Foods, found the trashcan
in back, yanked out the monster he'd cobbled together
from cubes of ozone and bits of a demolished arcade -

ripped out its lettuce heart.

'Levitate!' he shouted again, once home.
I will not trash this fucker, he swore – various
ghastly images of previous trashed creations leaping
to mind: two roach carcasses impaled on the same stick
in the attitude of a hug.

Magma, the phantom smear, the growling doormat:
Waldo's hydraulic reflex tore cables from the children's
psychic machinery – 'I'm leaving you, babies.' The unsightly
void left by the eponymous paper cutting.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

INCREDIBLE TEETH

his stoicism losing steam, the insurance clerk commences to babble at his dinner date through the cracks that have begun to form in his self-imposed vow of silence – the candle in the middle of the table sputtering after a time in his rigorous, epic word-stream
sporting an impassioned poop-face: for it would appear your cat is too large, after all, to fit into the blender
the visage of Elizabeth Taylor appearing in cinematic squid flashes beneath my skin when I'm nervous, dazzling my dermatologist, so that he needs to intermittently go outside and catch his breath – under which breath he would keep whispering incredulously, 'whew, wow, holyfuckbuiscuits, whoa'
Four Loko ossified finally into historical fact, in which state hopefully it would no longer fit down the gullets of our children and our children's children
the brake lights of the Id – blinking in Morse 'tail, I'm chasing tail, tail, tail, tail-tail-tail-tail, chasing chasing chasing chasing, tit, ass, tail, tail' before guttering out, leaving only a deathly silence, and a weird smell of dust and burnt hooves, in its wake
in the engagement of my favorite hobby, where sporting a visor hat instead of a bonnet modified with dangling corks and a brow-level propeller is considered a sartorial faux pas deserving of ostracism by my fellow hobbyists
life migrated from the outer rim to the epicenter – and then back to the outer rim, where it didn't smell quite as strongly of shit
your teeth undivided by scenic geological isthmuses
an elf gruntingly but successfully wielding a large ketchup bottle, overcompensating for something
after an out-of-body-experience, during which he must have looked down on his inanimate body and been somehow disgusted by it, the rapper pawned off all his bling
can't resist a good mounting – that bovine characteristic of standing perfectly still at these junctures, the theme of many a Country Western song that lauds this aspect in the behavior of cows
technically the salivary functionality of the undead should be deficient, thus not cause gum to lose its flavor
the professional organ donor's love for canaries remained intact throughout his long, prolific career
the fishing pond the depressed person likes to retreat to and sit down beside and let his finger rove in the sand, drawing a UFO with a nude figure emerging from it when he's sure no one is looking
although me too, standing beside and via the mere act of breathing feasting on and thus steadily depleting our proud historical marshes – thanks to a malignant respiratory condition I seemed to have picked up after years of going to bed with and clutching an aerosol can to my chest like a teddy bear, resulting in the can's intergrowth with my chest and possibly my lungs themselves
oh do adopt the aesthetic of a wafer, asshole mountain range – C3PO, lost in said mountain range, and wishing for a flatter perspective of the land, pleads, in vain
the nude figure emerging from the UFO drawn by the depressed person in the sand beside the fish pond has amazing lilac udders

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

PAWNING OFF ELECTRICAL APPLIANCES, PARADOXICALLY TO OBTAIN THE THRILL OF THE CHASE

Disclaimer: involuntary see-saw movements your mustache
may undergo as Absolute Truth evaporates from it,
like worm eggs hatching in split ends.

Empathy contraption – weird mannerisms whipped-together
so it can walk; so the pimp can continue meditating
on his tarp, morbidly horse.

With the body language of the closed-circuit purple,
may the Lawnmower Man smuggle his sheet ghost
into a game of telephone - raging cybernetic flaw

with the physiology of a fridge raid; but clever enough
to bait-and-switch the sexy dummy for the rancid pillow.
Really, so clever: a silly magic set playing with which

triggers the same “sense of being spied on” as rummaging
through Simone's panties, horse-like.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

MOTHER'S DAY

I saw your mommy, novelty utility – I saw your mommy
I saw your new habit, oven glove – I saw your new habit
existence is floating all over the area in which your mommy
TRIED ON HER NEW OVEN GLOVE

I saw your pretzels going to waste, terminally ill
I saw your pretzels going to the terminally ill:

tomorrow the joy stick will visit the haberdashery
leukemia will be on the rotisserie
again, the fish eye will try to de-carousel de-helicopter

embroidery in the future the lathe humps dapper
followed, on safari the measurement of time-travel
your mommy has lost her predilection for the asbestos body type

SPRINGBOARD IS BLISS

Myself, cube-shaped fruition. A pretty OK pharmacist-themed neighborhood.

I guess.
Homes. A mess.
Sudden onset instability, pterodactyl parallax.

Screw that: Through the innards of the anemone, we all know tequila.
And executive peeking, with shoelaces of wish bone,
isn't chemistry – but a doodle's impatience, spastic mesmerizing –
Outhouse peppermint.

Fractured, shaded, sinister, the pinball up and sticks, with a plop,
in a hairpin artery.
Killed curiosity with a treadle
that could speak all languages,
whisper,
and hand-power a fetus.

Gotta NOT have poor impulse control to be an obedient burning effigy.
What's the matter, battering ram?
A stronger bond between junk mail as a result of valiant trafficking by
the bikini jetpack, sticky, sweet-smelling pioneer of incongruency –
the tranny crashing into a mosaic of
saturation's flesh: portable obesity, passively,
what bliss's paranormal looks like dapper.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Four Loko

Music that sounds like singing in the shower after
spilling Four Loko on my stereo system,
brushed metal evolving to resemble Sharon Tate falling into her own
sword. Drinking this shit is an insult to Valentine's Day – I can see it in
the knobs and lights and buttons of my Frankensteinian stereo system,
as I, respectively, crank, wave at, and elbow them – trying to stop
them from drawing me into their conspiracy to validate
women's wrestling. Or wrestling women.

I hear that at thrift stores, there are special disposal chutes to get rid
of the putrid odor of clothes demoralized by molecules
infected phage-like by the previous owner's prior
experimentation with the drink.

I once placed a can of the stuff on my coffee table:
bits and pieces of the table banded together
to form a sad lynch mob burdened by a lost cause – then collectively
morphed into a rather plain, readily identifiable symptom of depression.
Looking a lot like a gallstone.

The real-life counterpart of a burrito is fecal matter – normally
not on the best of terms with each other, they will cooperate as a team
of engineers to devise alternative routes out of the body:
taking turns to sneak each other out on blue magnetic eddy currents
(helpfully induced by the drink itself). Playing dead while virtually-digested
Kellogg's Corn Flakes flank them, pallbearers that obey gravity in so
far as it reconnects them with that mythical recycling facility –
where they are to be grafted into the Babylonian
Jenga tower of shit that is purported to reach all the way into space
where it no longer suffers the risk of falling over.

'What are those shapes in the background?' I was referring to the
cube-shaped shadows on the wall behind my Valentine's date – sort of
leaping out of her own shadow. It looked strange, but amazing.
Could this … ? Nah. Could those shadowy chunks be emitted by
my new-found ADD's relatedness – or the lack thereof - to the functionality of a power saw?

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Dean Of Daft

Deviled eggs that contain trace amounts of a gypsy curse.

Split in separate directions: a coma growing enough false-positive corners to quilt a sleeping bag at odds with its host's tastes.

And so thanks to an empty, uncharred can of Pepsi sitting atop a heap of ash in the crematorium, the group of mourners are afforded evidence of the existence of portals.

As if the reinvention of antacids weren't enough, the question as to why the crack pipe so suited the goat's mustache was also enthusiastically tackled.

The horrible opinion of the mailman – that my Toyota has all the qualities of an enchanting conversation piece, best moved to the back of the house at the risk of drawing all the city's mailmen.
At the risk of the dandelions in my front yard being savagely trampled.

The myth of the office water cooler debunked.
It is a troll in a white UN helmet.

MC Hammer reworking his entire existence into an impossibly complicated scientific calculator – so that his buttons may be touched, but NOT his soul.

Withdrawal, cold sweats, green bumps erupting all over his neck and back – Ernie longs immediately for his wife's hand's fingers' reinsertion into the holes of the bowling ball; he's addicted to how handsome his wife's hand looks holding the heavy black orb, and cannot imagine seeing it otherwise preoccupied.

Postmortem, played on loop like artfully styled ping-pong.

'Bmeep-bmeep!': for to the brick moved slowly by telekinesis, that sound, made by the Roadrunner overtaking it in a mushroom-stalked plume of dust, sounded heinous.
Sacrilegious.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

MORNING BREATH

all-nude jail peanut butter broke jittering wooden toy bug anal probe
many uvula kilowatts Wookie uses to wake her
purgatory loves its stereo:
Heineken hates its pleats:
school teachers hate their asscheeks:

it is all cleansed and submerged in the backwash of a very spiritual B-Movie about marsupials

quilted, disposable liver!
what an insane cardio staple-gun!
how the tear ducts remain dry as they shudder!

PIZZA PREDATOR

This galaxy is sometimes more enjoyable soundproof,
a miracle beaming broadly, with piano key teeth,
after rising from a puddle of mud – curtsying to buxom psychopharmacological ingredients in frilly panties: the mind's
silicon stylus would otherwise be less adjustable.
Useful otherwise only as a leech keyring, landing in your lap
and sucking on your dick
after fumbling with it in your getaway car.

Cardboard embedded with a transistor. The pizza circa 2053.
Now an asthmatic mound flickering with adorable Anime eyes:
TV bodily fluid accrued.
Pellets of clown fossil; albino crusts scattered across the floor of
an antidepressants factory after Robocop had passed through.
Bigfoot kissing in an '80s calisthenics video. 'Now respect my
embrace, bitch!' Resentment's acoustics:
polyvinyl sewn into the Victorian pelvic dashboard.

A microbial free lunch with roots in a large teeming subterranean metropolis,
as enticing to a corkscrew as that small dot marking the convergence of a
staring contest between a car salesman and a soda
vending machine. Predatory.

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