Thursday, June 30, 2011

KATE BUSH'S CLONE IS A BLANKET

Sauron reclined on a gurney,
which to the young doctors pushing it
down the corridor sounds like Dial-Up
but to the dead wizard – evangelical.

My armpit is fun.
Stare through its windowpane.
Closing it, there is some cloudy crotch fusion.

The fly's face right by it –
craning its neck to look -
the slum heaving, then hissing with the intensity
of a packet of rice sinking to the heart of a quasar -
the fly's mustache vibrating in the threnody:

because my armpit is an educational singer that
provides a rush most addictive – but to the fly is
soul-deadening.

350mg of spectral maid, pulling me from
the shower, saving me from myself –
i.e. a filament weaponized, anorexia sparkling with
photoshop cellophane.

Kate Bush's clone does not care.
It is a male, Walmart-augmented blanket
infested with Axe body spray –

dressed as a witch with a ring of cocaine
resting squarely on its lips, gurgling acidic
dreams like mouthwash-dripping cocks into the livecam.
Sniffing its palm. Drawing powder from urine.
It does not care.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF

Because the AC is that grisly.
Who knew my chainsaw
could smell its own rubber?

I saw Halley's Comet through night vision goggles.
My jaw dropped: Or did something similarly stupid. Like parkour.

Hold the scone this way. No, not that way.
Right. In the sunlight. Yeah. Right. Now: Feel it
flood over you. Wait. Squint. Just a little more. Now:

Feel it flood over you. That's how I normally
generate suspension of disbelief
when conventional means aren't
at my disposal. 
 
This smile, I got through surgery. It is,
a utility for eating.
This kidney, comes from a stencil. The parameters of which are steak-like.
This rocket, stinks of [and exudes, at toilet level]
lawnmower sweat.

This gnat, date rapes with cute asthma.
This psycho, uses BBQ tongs to tease the bangs
of autumn. Now autumn's bangs look like porn's
hairy nose flanges.

And he curbs the altitude of the vegetable by deleting certain formations
in golf. Sasquatch
fixing the corrugated
tin door of
his roadshow,
the maudlinest
thing I've ever seen.
I wish every
bad experience of
the previous
inhabitants [of
my house] to
be engraved
in pulp.

Monday, June 27, 2011

GATORADE BY TUESDAY

The Ghostbusters
know that the turkey [animal, anatomically correct suitcase, dissected frog] is the Canadian periodic symbol


for fart jokes


raising their sack of extinct ink, its blast interchangeable
with Van Halen

smelly fragile flavored Vampire         stress as subject of 
                                                      performance art –
guaranteed weird costume –


butterfly diabetes space screwed
on horrifying latex TV

therapeutic gurgles in my therapeutic dream: the dental
clockwork


in it a snail trying to keep warm with unruliness         naked is autonomy
space screwed killing me in my pants


Gatorade by Tuesday an adorable plankton 
mirage of ears

Saturday, June 25, 2011

IN WHICH I DON'T MEAN SOMETHING WELL ENOUGH [A CAKE]

armadillo sheathed
homage to lampshade

hover bedside
peach, your oozing digital
X-ray

weather fluctuations'
hypnotic pawing

restore my former pony,
Betamax
video
machine
volleyball is safe
is a safe hobby
is safe chemical castration –
but pretty clumsy –

shear [ ] popsicle [to] sociopath

the poltergeist's diaper [is]
a skull
its lizard's hunger

for a urine test, [expressing]

your
disapproval via a pantomiming feather duster


where everything that cannot be seen
is nudged into the open, the
laundromat with eyes open, [predilections]
on stalks of electrode hips

electrode-
fit [baby]

like parachute-failure applied externally,
pumpkins welcome the
resurgence of transparent tissue

pimped [out] goblin

although [not] good meat

how tight or nipply, inflatable doll's t-shirt
isotope of the gnawed cell

primordial soup pulverized is
death unpleasantly pretty clear
pretty nice antennae
[baby]

if you're willing to have your jar polished
then you're willing to have your ball-point pen's exoskeleton
the cure,
formaldehyde-grown CAKE to mean

risen well [CAKE] but
not well-meant

Friday, June 24, 2011

WHEN GOD CREATED ELVIS

They turned on each other, LSD and the fork used to scoop it up. The foot and the elusive garden soil Agent Cooper was busy raking in changing patterns of owl fart when you walked in on him. Awfully embarrassing, like catching your pancreas smoking oatmeal with delinquent explosions behind the mall's sixth, drooping eyelid. A fucking school bully. An invertebrate when taking a bath; an Ewok when suddenly angered.

Smelled by the keenest foot sole in search of a mate. In plain fracking sight, Satan's areolae exhibited hurt – though you could barely identify them by their sonic booms. Somewhere, a plague is getting some much-deserved reprieve. Inertia sensitive to the wheels whipping behind the snail's mudguard earlobes when Captain America with a heroic flourish drops his hearing aid onto the floorboard of the snail he'd tamed with a rapid succession of mute sneezes with acupunctural finesse along the snail's body, and a jab of the thumb into the direction he'd wanted the creature to, with warm-blooded locomotion, very slowly take him.

Your tongue, dreaming of being the primary conduit of the pretty lilt in your voice. Tonality, when I hit you hard in the face, activated proportionally to higher and higher concentrations of knuckle beard. For the money I paid to watch it squirm, lightning could have a few less potatoes clumped at the ends of its epilepsy. Made before it committed genocide, made before it retired to an armchair with a slingshot. The Bosnian parrot's warped penis's accuracy with a stone. It's not ordinary harassment. It's God's misidentification of His four and a half creations. Elvis in the first eleven seconds of his existence.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

WIMBLEDON KARATE

The rabbi slowly fitted my head clamp. Until then, I had been
a truly disoriented person. I was kindly given sanctuary by
a vestige from my youth – a warm wet armpit fart; I had
hidden from wolves by quickly growing a forest on that 'old me's'
tongue. I'd seen the rabbi tinkering with shapeshifters, casting
logs in the flightpaths of their molecular configurations,
laughing at the karate guy on Wimbledon's
center court, his flamethrower debunked as a wooden paddle
blocking the windows of a tiny periodic table, the Queen's
answer to 3D specs when watching a jolly game of tennis –
his distraught, surprised, ranting mug a testicle emoticon
bouncing around on the clipped, fresh, dewy grass.
The rabbi carefully removed a pig bladder's left hemisphere,
a doorknob that offered access to a Ferris wheel – or
denied it by grabbing your coat sleeve. 'Now, a big butt's
center of gravity is tight-lipped,' he says. '4chan has
been looking for ways to harness this attitude to
suspend its incontinence in a magnificent shimmering arc –
your brain now, tempered by this clamp, will serve as a
gyroscope journeying through the august portals of the
aforementioned big ass. You will think yourself inside an
inflatable toaster; you will think that, in Hell, the inhabitants
are all prone to overreacting; you will also be equipped with
a Walkman' – dangles Walkman before my bulging eyes -
'you will hear it sniffing in your ears. Ignore it. Don't be
alarmed if the whole place from time to time looks like a
hurriedly abandoned meth lab.'

Monday, June 20, 2011

UNABOMBER – ANOTHER MUTATION

before David Copperfield realized that turning his apron inside-out magically precipitated anonymity, he was a mere alligator desperately in search of a fashionable, insouciant new angle for the lone feather that grew on his body

the bounty hunter that was after him liked the PowerPoint presentations that featured the optical shenanigans of Copperfield's apron and the comical desperation of his feather

sperm is the real people eater, and goes Arf! Arf! Arf! - like Hitler during a certain stage in his horrific maturation, the originator of the Wilhelm Scream after it dawned on him that he deserved to die, and that in disguising himself on a billboard as Marilyn Monroe, he needed to plaster himself affectionately in Jell-O, to stick better

the Unabomber has been having fun, for the first time in his life, with kleenex – wiping the Jell-O metastasis and pouring salad dressing on the raw, volatile substrate

when the gum next falls out of your mouth, Unabomber, you'll have a grand awakening

Sunday, June 19, 2011

HOOKERS BENEFIT FROM ACTING APPROPRIATELY

The hand grenade didn't go off. It didn't give a shit.
Its fatty mental mechanism, when it sat there thinking
about STUFF, in the sewer I'd tossed it into,
turned hard and chocolate-flavored - shockwaves
of smooth shiny acrylic, doodles in drag:
the new messiah prancing through Jerusalem.

Restructuring vignettes of dark twisted
cerebral palsy – the flaccid python it
pumps full of electrolytes – the ambulance
takes breaks by screaming silently into a tub
of hand lotion. The ambulance stands barefoot
on the spongiform anatomy of the supernatural.

Dear hooker – act appropriately. Practice by stacking the
layers flaking and plunging from an ice cream's back-alley autopsy;
with time you'll be able to filter those hideous repercussions
of the evil mad scientist's mole anthropomorphized as a
bouncer's scalp – plus his idle thoughts about STUFF – dry erased
by the hat wrought in a complex gang fuck. Excreted by
his mental disorder's foray into a napkin.

An urban youth's doll arms toying with a biro gives the
creepy impression of a dragon slayer holding a hot
stainless steel tea kettle with house slippers.
Sketching the process and mistaking the result
for the pruny, deflated heart of the neighborhood raptor.

Friday, June 17, 2011

GRAY AREA - ANOTHER MUTATION

with a skeleton of bird netting
a gelatinous kite
drooping with labor

gray area
frottage

twigs in chewing gum
some creatures puke chewing gum riddled
with twigs

twig-riddled chewing gum puke
frottage

shopping cart photons (in comics)
but in cities, the condensation that wobbles through streets
in the form of scrap metal

glittery, clinking jackpot in the enema's wake
a mean, deliberate way of making fun of assisted death
but also an unexpected breath of fresh air, promptly triggered

baroque claw in formaldehyde
its shadow puppets all illusions
formed at inappropriate moments (like the gaffes
the deaf make)

I'm not white I am
a fiberglass throwback
a scooter straddled by an immortal college student
the Warsaw vigilante
whose Japanese AK47 is a real cocktease

cufflinks lost
in a frappuccino after trying to strangle same
(cue musical plotch)

the government brainwashes by way of careful application of
gray areas, the latter generated not in superconductors
but by plowing a circus (out of distrust)

an exploding wart as the seat of power from which
hypnotic toxins scatter 

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

IN WHICH A GORILLA COMPLAINS ABOUT ITS BAD POSTURE

The kitchen sink arcade used up all the breath
of an altar's aluminous siren. Above it
hovered a blimp uncomfortable with its own, flammable sideburns.
Anorexia seepage, not my sunscreen shriveling light.

I'm a pale guinea pig
slowly acclimating to the warmth of a group of American tourists.
Corkscrew disfigured, you
be, for a few minutes, the strangest shape turned

in the mind of a cross-eyed
Borzoi.

A membrane of garish spectators balmed
in something bleary and indifferent
in case the gorilla gets insecure
and thinks it's Donald Trump led to the slaughterhouse – I thought
I told you not to stare.

Mourning the dependence
of an insatiable floppy disk
truffled between its maternal spheres, the sandwich steadily began
to eat the genetic information contained in its
own seeds. Birdseeds.

Out of a tube of toothpaste crawls an abortion.
Its aesthetic isn't everybody's cup of tea. But I heard it's getting quite
proficient with its unicycle and the need it feels
to flaunt this on MySpace
has earned it just a few less hits than the skeleton's pose
reconfigured every few minutes on that site with a cattle prod.

The resurrection of Lazarus took place in a chemical lab,
for he was a sticker peeled off a sheet of wax.
A Soviet Mickey Mouse
whisked up in a medical experiment,
connected to a clunky apparatus via a tentacular weave of instant noodles
and three USBs. 

Monday, June 13, 2011

HIS COLESLAW, HER BEER CAN

No one had told her that the inspiration behind the design of
the loveseat she was sitting on with her husband was the stalking,
determined attitude of a geriatric frogman climbing walls.
Disillusionment: marmalade cratered by a beige, knurled
palate cleanser. Sharted shotgun silly putty - how its gait quickly
evolved into a humanoid nunchaku. The actress slobbering on candlelight
marked the genesis of the first cheekbone. Nearby, a wedding DJ not
widely known, his resonance a jeweled smolder. His thoughts of
brain-damaged coleslaw. Her beer can unencumbered by wild hair.
But sporting a demonic cell phone holster. Flea semen bathing in
candlelight was the body of an ill-fated vibe. Hey, was that
one of the Goonies over there – absently patting the butt of his
embryo keychain? Said of the cubed restaurant's infamous fondues:
said of the detritus remembered and sort of jammed in gastronomic lore.
Only with the cool type of autism could one fiddle a Swiss Army knife's
fish bones into position and, with stunning grace, aid in
the corpse of a smelly, sun-bleached puppet's re-animation. 

Sunday, June 12, 2011

BRAINSCAN KICKING UP MIST

I knew from personal experience that the kamikaze sexual position was basically a death wish's crunchy protein, on Broadway. On a board game, the splash of a hotel when you leave all the doors open. I thought I loved you taped, weasel – and stuffed, I dialed aquatic and now can't sleep. T-Rex Transformer cranking personal goods from kiosk to talent show, to the janitor in the audience its voyeuristic quality seeming multilayered. Graveyard mothballs strung on high-school poetry. A calculating food truck with a cadaver at the interface controller, like ET's phone booth a gauzy brain scan pressing buttons in order to talk to yourself.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

TOILETTEN BRILLE

periodontal pudendum
transgenic spatula's
horticulture

Freddy Krueger
scrotal-voiced

expressing concern
in long strides
on biomechanical
roller-skates

over Marge Simpson's
coiffure

not so ill-suited
to the neutron maggot
at a bowling alley
in warty
tennis shoes

at a psychiatric
facility juggling the
pigments of
alienation and togetherness

dropping one
of each

the pearlescent gullet's
chief factor
the tea leafs
a gifted surgeon
tosses up into the
air like autumn happily
burping up at
the moon's frayed foreskin

the Crypt Keeper
naively gentrifying
a rainbow whilst scaring
it back into its own
ass

as
the metropolis's dandruff
bounces on
your eyelashes

at a mall viciously and relentlessly
humiliating
an orphan

with insectoid
retches dehydrating
his
little feathers

subsisting on
torturing your outside
with your
inside 

Thursday, June 9, 2011

TINFOIL SEDUCTION

Ending up looking like Alec Baldwin is a terrible crime committed this very minute by her blow-up doll. In a shark cage, but also in tiny rubber quotation marks instead of lingerie, it now feels like descending into a septic tank. Body language conveyed to the doll via a set of wavering gills. It'd be cool if there were other ways to make grime useful, she says once submerged.


I'm a spider and my garage is mega haunted, if feels like. It has this abandoned coiling staircase and everything. I am cheap, however; I embellish my web. Webs aren't supposed to consist of spandexed legs frothing in beer. I also shit in my web. It's true. Indeed, a large part of the structure flaunts the rather adorable fact that I've used chopsticks on many occasions to with rattling ninja trellises alleviate constipation. Toilet paper is always sunny.


About 2000 feet beneath the surface of the ocean a blank area is about to collapse. Scuba abortions don't send out shock waves and they don't cause a sound, they cause nothing, if not emotional distress among squid citizens who love babies – but a flavor is emitted and it's of boxing gloves.


The PEZ dispenser is a urinal with a robot hairline. I'm peeing into its rectangular lip. The dregs that swirl at the bottoms of vast blow jobs like the innumerable peanuts marching around insect mazes molded under the cover of clouds in glasses of grapefruit – these are sorted into good UFOs and not-so-good UFOs by the dispenser, later to be rapidly frisbeed out over a cool lawn in the luminous, luminous dusk when the hideous thing has been finally put to pasture.


There's something funny about the sense of 'dissolution' felt in a taco's numb spreading cuticles the instant an electrode is shafted up its spine. A sense which is immediately paired, painfully, with the realization that it would be rather hard, henceforth, to start relationships with women who are immune to tinfoil jingles levitating up their dresses.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

EXPIRATION, AND OLD TOY BURN, AND SHARING SOMEWHERE


He's in a pillow fight that's drawing him, very slowly, into a time warp. Out of the goodness of his heart, a molecule crawls on four legs. Slits for eyes. He can't believe he hasn't even heard of this virtual environment until now, much less of its mushroom accelerometers. Peace, and the loss of which at that moment mourned by a spud somewhere. It takes him twenty years to reach the end of the time-curve; the pillow is losing feathers in woozy, upside-down patterns. Modern life hastens the expiration date of concentration. So now is the time to utilize the Vulcan greeting, the best tool in the universe to facilitate the two-handed armpit fart. What's not to love? the Playboy gestures to himself in the mirror, subsequently. What terrible, practiced ease in the midget's jerky, knobbly shoulder movements! His biological clock consists entirely of straps. His bipolar disorder's legless, armless pedaling of a speculum – a journey deep into the suburb's corruption of old toys, plus the yielding of third degree burns. Mood music and werewolves that share a commonality of purpose.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

SHOE SMELL EUPHORIA

Even less voluntary than the cramp I get when bringing a magnet close to my calf. Breakdancing has to be the least dignifying fear response. The artery's drain jerking awake as the poison is triggered instead of dispelled the moment the fire engine is plugged into it. It really is a pity I've misplaced my earphones; I will now have to pop egg after egg into my mouth if I want to hear the music produced by a brontosaurus's fainting. Waste in the form of subway graffiti spilling over the napkin – for I convinced my Parents in Law that the dinner was wonderful by orgasming. Cursed. She's a saber toothed tiger but cursed, goddammit! Gums totally eclipsed by a shocking, jagged dress. Ambulatory vomit leads all the social aspects of a meth lab around by the elbow. Regarding the circulation of melted soldering iron in the small nipples of a Stone Age rabbit, to whom disembowelment offers the drug effect of rocks falling: this is more than just a minor disorder. Canker signals delayed in its splayed-brush sonar. Death feigned most successfully with syncopated hiccups. Bat wing sweating. Fried chicken stepfather. Though scientifically verifiable as foreign material, to me your ankle bites feel bloody terrific!

Monday, June 6, 2011

FEATHERS RUBBED VIGOROUSLY

The shower curtain is making a name for itself as a serial killer,
especially with that sound it makes when it grabs and breaks
your neck – i.e. of a cello played with flipflops.

I wonder how many people know that circumcising a dildo
leaves you with a proper flamethrower.

In nature, the vulture comet passes over a Bunsen burner;
at sandwich petting zoos, feathers are bathed in totally different
inner-thigh friction. 
 
The Death Star is actually a kind of postal service, its blocks
set it place via the dedicated practice of stamp collecting –
its emissions dispatched and guided by massaging a periodic table.

Integral to doing the domestic chores: a bunch of metallic splinters
racing around a seashell. For this is Magneto's washing machine.

Even though it causes dinosaurs' eyebrows to itch, calling this blue,
rather typical household fungus 'Smurf residue' is considered bigoted
and immature.

Simone and I are not such forward-looking people, either.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

THE CITY IN THE PETRI DISH – CEREAL NOIR

The transcendental supermarket is a mere theoretical construct,
but it sits on a very real bump in the middle of my breakfast.
Of course things quickly go south again, as from this lump of lifeless
earth I direct a totally theoretical stream of urine back into the vacuum.
Forgetfulness soon sets in, like an unreal celestial glow that perpetuates
to the inhabitants of the world the idea of anesthesia.
Short-term memory is one of those intricate, baffling sand castles a bully
stimulates into tiny drifting parts with the triangular malady of his feet,
knees, and knuckles. My hysteria is irreconcilable with the belief of
slowly, with each spoonful, inculcating the divine rights of cereal.

A petri dish of coils obtained at a totally theoretical dispensary
cultures into predatory Velcro; a strange parasite that looks like
a city underneath and whose crimes you can only solve with
the Turing test, since it's the best allegory for traffic lights we have.
DIY cures include hugging a piss-soaked Thesaurus:
by lubricating synonyms for 'premature internment' they can
wriggle off the many, many hooks. The hydroponic effect of the parasite's
gasses and body temperature can grow all your captured facets into a
goddamn tapestry, in which the coroner theoretically sees his own face 
and his subsequent religious experience wracks his chest viciously.

Those Fruit Loops hanging on the coat hanger that didn't get mushy
from all the cough syrup have the tendency to punch you in the fucking face

The ones that died still resonate strongly with moths
The coroner is emotionally still very connected to his mouth guard.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

EATEN UP BY MY TWIN IN UTERO

it first passed through the skin of odd furniture
before its own morphology could strangle a chainsaw

armed with it, I cruised toward an old rocking chair
my bad breath promptly coated the thing in oatmeal

when I tried to draw money, I could see that a crowbar
had been digging around for a while in the ATM's belly button,
it leisurely dabbled in the tie-dye horrors of its
equivalent of navel flint

my amphibian house guest was constantly trolling for
lumpy matter rolled up in a napkin by his dentist

the napkin couldn't speak but the resulting farts of its efforts
unfurled ten Burger Kings that stank up the place

I read and interpreted vulgar hive-mind messages from
my first set of cup holders, arranged into a cube not of this world

after eating cat brains from each comb,
I finally learned that I – I, OR everything else –
was related to a spoon

after all, bodily mutation was a joyride –
along the way you reveled in the sleaze of snuggling
next to janitors dressed up as chambermaids (or vice versa)

easily turned into the best part of my day
such as when I was a fetus wearing sunglasses that turned
misty over photographs of hot food

or whatever else they mistook my twin sister for

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

FAKE BLOOD

hallowed image of bodybuilder in yearbook
his irritable bowel syndrome staring back lifelessly
through-the-looking-glass raw meat
my memory of the helium schoolbus expectorating squeaky
crystals of déjà vu, fogging up the windows
the vast spectrum of our numb gums
strobe lights in a fish tank when she bit down
a religious experience's aerosol derived from hotel dishwater
from the very pit of obscurity, slave labor cooked up
an incarnation of cupcakes, hippocampal silicates
aggregating into flamboyant slice of pizza
the average growl of tires in milligrams
go! but your jealousy will make false teeth
will you walk through my scrapyard carefully minding
infestations here and there of squishy parts, welts
as edible as the square mile of sleeping sickness
locusts spread vast polymers upon enraptured wig
there is nothing appealing about DARPA
or its propensity to inflict cabbage, to cause cabbage
to mass-produce cabbage
plus your mother's subsequent transfusion into
a hilarious dance, disguising incest as a so-called
biocompatible blast in wheelbarrow, ash shape-shifting
antlers under your pillow covered in old, old blood

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