Sunday, July 31, 2011

TO THE MANY JANITORS THAT HAVE STARRED IN SCOOBY-DOO

to the ions undergoing Walmart's brutal rite of passage – robot vegetarianism is often the right swab

but have your salivary glands be very beer-thoughtful

you will emerge tired, haggard – a traveler on the edge of a hairy stellar polyp grasping at objects – most notably the blue hopping subliminal vaguely Coke-a-Cola-like truck – knowing as certainly as you know anything:

Traveling by Tardis induces constipation.

in the mouth of the sacred cow, the harmonica's puffed-up neural circuits –
like any good outfit complementing a large tongue by spreading itself corrugated-thin – performing symbols almost as well as Rorschach origami – like the Batman logo sallow-weeping

Scooby-Doo puzzled by your average fistfucker; the mystery framework at all times faithfully adhered to – it's astonishing how the locks they'd pick they'd pick with suction cups

skull of Yoda, a trough of impenetrable meaning nestled in its prognathous jaw – the glow in the dark immune system sliming up the cave's walls Shaggy's puzzling over, now, asking – while the janitor grins behind his mask:

How sensitive must sushi be before it starts vibrating? How obscene?”

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

OTHER PEOPLE

Other people are a logical poison.
The intolerance Rolodex
of this beta humanoid
is calmed by Xanax bone-pedaled.
An eccentric carcinogen on the wind of
the parrot's diarrhea propeller – plus other people
are yeast fused with the deep whiff.

Swarm, cloak, encrypt -
fish scales faxed individually
at high speeds.

Just count the amount of X-rays foraging at night.

Lying in a Transformer mold instilled with deadly social skills.
And so genes eventually turned out to be a parable for plastic,
each gene a sun-bleached lung doddering in
an inflatable swimming pool. 

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

LSD OFFICE CUBICLE

What's the two-headed mailman doing eye-fucking that un-enveloping arcade game? In a room of pure oatmeal forged from LSD, you're just so many dots and checks and stripes and vomit-colored specks nursing on the appendages of that badly patched-together Sims clown.

Part of a society of neon thumbs on the emetic disco ball prior to its slow decline in a pet cemetery as a Halloween hairball casually sleeping off its variegated scales.

The veneer of a thonged mushroom much needed by the post-apocalyptic office cubicle not too much of it else the desk might end up looking like Manga boobs on Ritalin bouncing beneath a stale weave of led.

At the controls of the vending machine a Nazi's abused foam rubber pet monkey teen heartthrob catamite just released from the same dreary office cubicle where on its desk a friendly centipede demonstrated the art of teleportation bit by segmented bit from one edge of the desk to the other while somehow managing to midway arrange a hundred tiny dirty sneakers in the shape of a pentagram in the midst of which took place a form of interspecies congeniality consisting of dust motes and blinding sparks.

Briefcase-flavored brainwashing like geriatric martial arts snorted legs first the dry psychic cyclones on the inevitable comedown hand-standing in freshly vacuumed amnesia.

Monday, July 25, 2011

SCISSOR ARM LAMPS

Bloodflow
without the electron of hygiene.

Forklift mayonnaise. Payphone as Skittle bait.
Snail jaw.

Both legs amputated,
the maid's temporary affectation
and my bathtub's beard.
And my bed.
The knitted junkyard. 
 
Hello, drunken guard dog.
My what romantic chain rust.
Your owner's trepan –
how long now has it been a portal for cat food?

'Sorry to hear that,' the cadaver told itself,
after getting a stroke.
After dithering for a spell – Sputnik rammed on the go-kart track 
by a supermarket.

By that wearer of ballet slippers.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

WHEN YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT BUNGEE JUMPING

Subsequent to acting very surprised – let's say you
were actually very, very surprised – you may burp up a
little bolus into your palms. A symbolically pregnant malformation
of a breath. Then, it suddenly becomes clear that
every emotional response of the radio specter outside your window
is assisted by dark matter unfurling – a sort of tongue leaching into
the galaxy's wheelbarrow. Like a pap smear.
Your deathbed's antennae will lilt – and we might as well
have communicated with God using bedposts – your infatuation
with astronomical household objects will find a foothold
via a new type of sonar: a connect-the-numbers drawing of
a scary sex toy. But petals have built an oil drum
around your body. The woozy-looking bug on your sleeve has promised
that self-degradation would stop masquerading as suicide.

Friday, July 22, 2011

PIG

An X amount of bird
crap on the gargoyle
makes it look like a
Klingon watermelon

But if you want to
talk typical
heartbreak,
go watch
a loom flossing

Or as a Eurotrash
beast
traffic light hybrid would
put it:

wisdom teeth have no awareness

You may choose
to believe
Hasidic vertebrae
stew in strawberries,

or to think
the jaw a coaster
internet meme

The mouth: a foot spa for human remains

You may choose to
detect bath salts
in the brain
scan of a
pig

you
pig

DROVE OUT GLUTTONY

Swooning, a conduit formed by velvet's liquefaction, is enviable:

To lie down slowly in the nitroglycerine dregs at the bottom of what used to be an old lady's large brown swollen hand –

an AC's alcoholic smell
had played the saxophone;
had relieved it of scabies, until its knobs were no longer touchable

The fact that so much uneatable is addressed to your linoleum
a unicorn's comparative skill
like the scratchings in dried black syrup.

What's worse, the bubblewrap valence of a refrigerated pie
or the mortuary's pantry motif?

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

I SEE THE KANGEROO IN YOUR EYES

The practice of roosting, in athletic wear, resurges after a twinge of boredom. Before a sudden petrification – with Perez Hilton etched into the fathoms of gluteal resin, viscid romantic botanical bone truncated. Bloody waistcoat. CCTV magnet.

Horseshoe-shaped.

You don't mind if I call my cough an interpersonal skill? I got the chloroform handshake down pat. Poverty has bred a grungy tennis lesson, and herpes is where I drank. Tumor, you're a business meal; X chromosome, you're a squatter. Neanderthal kangaroo, YOU'VE been trapped by the riot police. With sweet words. Written about, at length, in a childish scrawl – like the variform missile fart that plastered the facade of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. 

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

FLU

Don's cellulite, prefab of flu and the preatomic denim,
bronchi depastured

His fetus so engorged as to be cloven,
a divination under the drip of the Sabbath's cheesy chemical

Don can show you the octo-asparagus –
the automaton's

Unraveling rattling botulism conducting the planetarium's
voodoo, assimilating

Mars odor not just for the sake of navigation
But for the sake of getting blown

Monday, July 18, 2011

SLINGSHOT PONG

Golf balls drooled by
Goliath – before the guillotine
cured his halitosis.

Insinuation
into the scattered collective.

The iguana
juxtaposition.

Or a xylophone wanting the idyllic life of a taxi.

GANGSTER CAMPFIRE STORIES

This myth is rekindled time and time again by gangsters:
dysentery can not be computed. They don't bother
much about the fact that the limousine was
well-hung; troughed, then dislodged from
the undecaying ashtray.

An entire neighborhood once left piece by piece –
in a field they later discovered the tetrices of a felon.

Wens gravitating toward bystanders in the aftermath of a drive-by.
Today, old people swear the pee spots in their hankies
are from excessive nasal pampering.
And the moon's new beam – a walking, talking,
rollicking celebration of blocks extinguished.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

TOURIST

The mime is apparently doing the bazooka-holding stance right now.
A weapon made of air – its turbine's heartburn consists
of pencil shavings. You, supermarket smudge. You, the humidity
of a nipple. On a live, televised, high-speed chase of a wandering peanut.

Oh: I've been seen in my underwear. By my pet hamster. It does
yoga, and allows me to observe its special entrails.
I call them yoga entrails.

Such care administered by the young pretty cashier on the
grinning crocodile's cut finger. Its blood drips on her hand,
and you can see now that if she were a pan,
she'd be cookie dough-resistant. A poseur's psychopathy
in the comic strip that famously featured the first
tentacle-wedgie. And Viagra that caused spaghetti to rape.

And I was sold a used breast implant by the same god
that made a special new hell in a Ziploc bag for my fish.
Asshole urine is a miracle, asshole. Hijack hijack hijack.
The mime's doing this right now; putatively washing a window.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

DRIVE-THRU FOR THE BIONICALLY ENHANCED

in the context of the bathroom
blocky circulation
and space-time's URL

extremely common at the end of a sting
cognitively polyp
hitches a ride on a DENNY'S

the odor of deer in a trunk
captured on the anthropologist's
scratch and sniff field notes

holographic pizza
spongiform, the synthetic
structure of its heart attack

sample of hedonism,
birthday party,
scratch the itch of the parade float's brain stem

a drive-thru specially for the
gunslinger's disability –
for he is the lobster with the bionic shower curtain

telephonically, jelly genome
resonance, eternal
floozy, eternal

sad rattlesnake, if only it
knew what to do about the soap scum
on its vocal cord

Friday, July 15, 2011

RUBBER ERASER IN THE NIGHT TIME

recreate abduction of three ribs
in a slide show to satellite recognition in the night time

you inhabit loss
the pressure from the office fridge's
floodlit steam, where the wax figure stood in sagging pants

telling tales of a dormitory's pubic ramifications into frizz
a coiffure massacre's

Pixar visual effects worth waiting for,
he says

broaching the threshold cross-section of a nuclear fission reactor
leg's grope of neurons during the passage: your telegram's
ineffable kilowatts

reabsorbed by the brain
binding vodka
rubber eraser femoral

rubber

eraser

Thursday, July 14, 2011

WARSAW VISOR

a rather dry and wrinkly flare grew from the martyr, into the sky like
a mushroom on a zombie ant's head
heaven wore an assistant's grimace, at a massage parlor when
cleaning away the oily offal
break a secret tiny bone, and it would paralyze a flea
it's wearing ginger ale panties dependent on the traction
of a mongrel coccyx - algebra coerces in mysterious ways
each employee on Wall Street is given a cute ladle
in the past they'd worn the Warsaw Visor, and
my carcass's carburettor had been soaked
something definable enwrapped, or tumbling in
the unutterable washing 

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

WORMWOOD

Misunderstood the mixed beauty pageant.
The mise-en-scène's nightmare shifting.
Contenders became hauntingly brain-like.

But the creep who claimed the slingshot was his only childhood friend
also tried to patiently coax a chorus of wavy filaments out of his
dog's gonorrhea with a taser.

William Shatner at one point was just a fat kid
poised before his reflection in an otherwise harmless DVD.

Could've done at least a hundred other things while
waiting on the long goop of the holographic sanitizer,
in the drugstore where I'm always lucky enough
to find a scared little tree snake behind the Oreos -
then throttling it in appreciation of its resemblance
to real handwash lotion.

Bellybutton as etymology of cyborg scalp.
The gorilla's idea of life after death: a hose's big
poop at the one end closed off by its formidable asthma
at the other.

Don't ever cut a hula-hoop in half...

Stick a thermometer into the pus of Neptune's soil.
The recurring oven mitten – and other soothing worlds
that allow you to hold them. But on this hand
seems to be a strap-on rat.

Can't set it free. We're sorry.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

IN A BATHTUB FOR YOU ARE WISE

you have your
television psychic
tongue – and you triangulate
the suppository's
secret location

sugar bitter
burst the blimp
juice of
the wingnut mascot a big letdown

of course, as a superpower, iron is a big waste of time
spinach money that's
not color-coded
becomes snail shit quicker

than CSI mistakes a homicide at a sleepover
for some weird new kind of
cubism – and the metronome that constantly wondered
'what am I gaining?'

it's one badass cognitive arm wrestler!
Earth-shattering,
and so now couches are great
for something else too:
for minding your own business

cocaine using its own initiative
to blind me with
reverse cosmetics:
I'm a guy at a desk poly-skulled vomiting

an octopus that
kneels over her face,
its bathtub
quickly filling with fingernail clippings

Monday, July 11, 2011

FACEBOOK IN OTHER COUNTRIES

Farmville Bosnia and
Herzegovina cudgel, it means gilded goat cheese-guilty pleasure

Garbage outlines of Typhoid vector rune
all day with fat ink on twinkly stinky Romanian masturbatory hatshaped receipt paper


admen-anthrax with their nails, carefully plump Starbuxed
Wi-Fi croissant:
non-sacredly, but sharing latex is no mean feat on the part of jellyfish

internalized Betty Page taut across lamp shade
tenderized and Sulfur, and dull as faith and kinky as drivers license
is crack's fatal flaw: a GPS dimension a psychedelic kind of feeling terrible?

Sunday, July 10, 2011

be a

OUTSIDE MY WINDOW BEFORE THE INTERNET

I take care of my pet monocle

I gather its pixels of pee with brush and scoop – part of the shocking phenomenon of a bladder growing on the whiskered tip of its dachshund moue –

Expanding to eventually take over its whole goddamn face –

my hairdryer's dark side, I won't go into it except to say,
on the plus side,
its Bosch filter deafens the user to the telephone sales patter that intermingles with and that depletes
the hot air of small fish

streetlamps emit DNA ultrasound, which actually comes from the sparklers drowning – with an unholy tingle along the thin neck of each sparkle –
in the marsh of their [i.e. the streetlamps'] genital herpes

Hate-waffle with its sensations passed on to a dog,
for safekeeping

Now simulate a loose-fitting t-shirt for us, Bruce Lee –
with the flex of your shoulder blades and the altering of your skin tone from pale Vincent Price gray to Volks Wagon yellow;

bring me a chess piece with its head cut off and beard ripped out as souvenir from your game of chess with an obsequious, thirteen-year-old Tarantino aboard the Graf Zeppelin, its alien copilot the walking embodiment of trash-talk

Then after lunch, when you're alone, in your cabin,
groom the hair-singed enamel flower of a big shit

which is your Hollywood brain damage, Bruce, by the way –
not your inherent forgotten masochism aesthetic,

electric purveyor of the light-absorbing tincture;
but the A-Team at their most palatable in the time I still wanted to be
an anthropomorphic lobotomy when I grew up;
those Yogi Bear stereotypes in the rape van; driving into the uncanny valley of a true Mobius sitcom plot-line; the phrase 'I love it when a plan comes together' a vulgar play on the original Swahili

Saturday, July 9, 2011

THERE ARE MANY DOTS IN THIS THING

In the hyena's dementia lurks a saintly appreciation for
the symbolic oomph – like a Nike symbol only less angular,
and with much less paisley – of bio-luminescent potato chips.
.............................................................if there's one object
..............................................................
that's evoked by a match of TV karate
at two in the morning.....................................it's not the yellow
...............................................................fungal mote of my
...............................................................coke habit
I deposit each night like clockwork into the tarantula's crayon
earlobe – it's the spitting, pinata-like object that hangs in
the shower and that I broke my leg twice trying to see if
others................like...................me.................live.............in......
........................................it.................................
At any spectacle, you can lower a cage and quarantine all the bystanders
so they never turn up at spectacles anywhere else again. But not if
they're gypsies. Not if they're expertly disposed-of bodies. Not if they're
phantom action figures. Not if they're bit-part players in the Flintstones.
After being butchered with an ax..................................
.........................................moisture's reincarnation
as the spasms …..................................
.......................................................that make eggs so hard
to balance..............................................
.............................................................on your head................
the unicorn's mummification the spacecraft took...............................
severe measures to avoid.......................................................
by gently placing its boobs...................................................
................................................................in aerodynamic 
...................................................................plaster casts

Friday, July 8, 2011

SEGMENTED SPIRIT ADMIXTURE

You might be standing on the bridge between
purity of density and interplanetary walkie-talkie.
You might not find it so awesome.
The digestive enzymes of the universe brought the
eviscerated mite to the forefront. Pinned to a
kitchen plank. Four pins. Mite-awful cancer up-close-fanged.
Then as you're gazing on, your thorax
pops out of your toupee – standing in stark contrast to,
but not meaning it any bodily harm, the
amusement park ride's well-advertised [with rivulets of
vagina and segmented fruit] proboscis.
I want to hear the meow in its reusable sushi flip-flops,
so I turn the volume knob of the space walk.
The building blocks of your junk will reap the benefits of
the green spirit alloy.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

WERE I YOUR SCURVY YOUR SAILOR

As Euclidean tights they can only really be rocked
by Mighty Mouse. The towel empurples.

Based on the design of their runny noses, shrimps
have taught us new combinations of uses for
trumpets and porridge. Are secretly
enamored with the enema a scurvied sailor
had tossed overboard – pale pink, cracked.

Clowns who know influenza is a variant of the
metamorphosis of meringue.
Infatuation with a novelty coaster and the tailcoats
of Italian vignettes stood on by your heavy glass,
as they try to run away and in the process get disrobed.

If you could read my mind, something of you would pool ankle-deep
inside a funnel. AIDS sold to a hobo by a godlike salesman.

Ominous. The clothes rustling in the Trojan trolley:
I bet I'm in there, and I bet no one suspects it.
And I bet I'm gonna jump out and make a fool of myself.
Between the parentheses of the prosthetic brace:
the ebbs and flows of nothingness that allow themselves to be parsed.
With a ruler. A shoe. A dismembered penis wearing a shoe.
Over the edges of sorcery's paper cut-out trick of the eye,

the Metropolis's metabolic quicksilver hisses and showers.
Sleeping with a cloven mermaid. She's ambulatory.
Can walk. Learning from a shop assistant the sinful practice
of parrots – text messaging
while walking. 
 
On her deathbed sticky as a hot iron,
but beautiful as a scratch card with coin-shaped welts.

The world is not sinister.
From the front I'm operatic like treetops – from behind
I'm a food processing plant.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

VIOLIN JETPACK GAS

the troll rowing team's stream
was more gravitational               playground
geysers of sleep                        snail sleep

sojourning as brittle words 
in the den of typewriter hex


to become an outer-realm jetpack
violin musters gas station goodness


My memory of post-apocalyptic sweater
the aftermath of bathing the burger effigy?

The teddy bear bacterial murder vacuum leathery in morning person-type arms

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

SHARING THE SAME GLANDS

Greedo hotted up
on a date fly open drunk
in a bubble bath extrapolating
this experienced based on the joys
of submerging your toe in
the noxious necrotic undead
petri dish back home
festering on the doorstep

humanoid leg humping
figure genetically spliced
with cannibal sharing
built-in oral super-glands
super-nodules built to take
real abuse from all
types of condiments

the two as one reconfiguring
their emotional connection
to gross ejected material
on chair to accommodate the CLAMP
for the CLAMP gets lonely

for it seems the stethoscope
has been hostile and mean
and now sees the shakiest tableau
only the strangest shit in the
mind of the bed-ridden facehugger
can no longer coordinate
with its limbs it is
not quite a happy stethoscope

C-3PO jerking off
with mesmerizing
speed to bright sunny
outlines of pillow
dancing salaciously on
his torso

the mindless silence
of gray metal US
military drone in Angry Birds
an entity not even part of
the same pizza topping
asteroid family but cruising
around the top half
of the screen at all times

wanting in wanting
to be accepted 

THE ACTUAL SIZE OF MY TIE

That side of the rural matrix (that farm plexus – nearly indistinguishable
from the stretch of land on this side of the fence) – is mimetic wax.
Droplets rolling down a solar panel - like the necks of Muppets
craning peculiarly – surge, and form leaning grass.
The gurgling craters in diarrhea serve as a model for the parallel
universe of suckers on my ass.
From your hair a creature arises, a creature with glowing eyes,
and raising his palm to his forehead, he says to himself:
Paint job with fiber-optic syringe goes here.”

Doing Pilates
covered in a
resin that
is prayer
repellent.

Strange
moth
in my
Nutella –

the intensity of whose yells are measured
in Fahrenheit, the toxicity of McNuggets in terms
of glare, and Ikea:

porousness.

The average intelligence of the animals in the zoo goes into
the semiconductor, tries to escape – then finally emerge
from the loudspeakers:

as hillbilly voicemail.

Lobsters do successfully remove sleep from their eyes with their claws.
Constant pain does incubate hot dogs.
Jason goes down to the very acme of the Periodic Table, where
in an eating contest he gets his tie tangled with a woman
twice [the tie's size].

DAMNIT!

There must be a pie chart for the emotions of EVERYBODY –
not just for the few lucky jars of 
undernail collectibles 

Saturday, July 2, 2011

THE NINJA AND THE POPSICLE

Back when everybody was passionately illiterate,
instead of hate mail a person got impassable kidney stones.
They were also untraversable and unclimbable.
Adding insult to injury, a despised ghost contracted
irritable bowel syndrome via a homemade, as
opposed to curio store-bought, Ouija board. Man, those
were the days ... Good, honest overuse defoliated your
toilet plunger – giving it an incredibly hot body.
If you were a surfer and decided to take up skateboarding,
your skateboard was almost sure to digest your nipples.
Dusty, crouching, sand-fingering behemoths sitting
on the sidewalks had hobbies, too: left for dead,
the potato they resuscitated would enunciate phrases of
street talk nearly indistinguishable from
pieces of the suicide bomber nearby because
their general import would essentially be a testament
to suede puke. At a Chinese restaurant, where biting your nails
would be the only item on the menu. Man...
And muscle-bound kittens hogging the karaoke stage,
until finally there was only a heap of baked cookies
presided over by a mist of ribbed, coiling headache,
would typically mark the end of a night out.
Microwaves cackled when loaded with the jewelry of
rich chicks. Sesame falling from the sky hurt
dinosaurs' eyes, eventually turning them all blind.
Dinosaur meat quenched many coffins
at the close of the Jurassic era. This one learns
in school. Sure, but in two thousand years from
now your kids are going to learn something pretty fucking
disturbing; namely, that a certain gene perverted by a combination
of pharmaceuticals would give a hermetic, mountain-dwelling
popsicle an embarrassing propensity for garish, tie-dye
hazmat suits, and would also instil in a sociable, extroverted
ninja a propensity for late-night reality TV – on which in a
stoke of fateful coincidence the hazmat-wearing popsicle
would meet the former in bloody (unfaked) combat. 

BLOODLETTING AT THE NURSING HOME

THE ENTREPRENEUR got rich by telling people to wish on a star
the way he displaced my need for therapy for post traumatic stress disorder was less lol-worthy than the means chosen by my therapist
the morning after proving their redundancy to him, he indiscriminately beat all his henchmen to death
it was probably a waste of time being East European, looking like a Cabbage Patch Kid from so much steroid abuse, and being the henchman of a self-sufficient entrepreneur

MY THERAPIST usually ordered me to brandish a squirt gun at targets set up all over his office
issuing from the nozzle was meant to be the theremin, rainbow ejaculate of VHS cassettes containing my favorite cartoons
the teenage bonobo that molested me as a child wore a tinfoil hat to prevent the projection of a spiny, curvy caricature of the utopia he imagined himself inhabiting on the smooth, unspoilt surface of the dark presence beneath the hat he apparently embodied like a thickly lacquered marionette, and is now living in a nursing home where he is constantly shunned by the residents for animal cruelty
for some reason, all his exploits are likened to smashing berries in slow-motion on Xbox Live
the process is seen in slow-motion because the horror reaches up from a deep well
and because the residents of the nursing home as a rule see everything in slow-motion

THE ENTREPRENEUR'S website implores me to find a large shrub, to wish on a star, and then to summon whatever I want from the shrub
from every shrub I have found so far, the feet of a dead body poked out
I crawl into one of the shrubs and look down:
I am a bug standing on a mirror
the thumb of my therapist, whenever he illustrated how I should squeeze the trigger of the squirt gun, was very charming
I imagined it riddled with thumbtack imprints, from sticking targets to the walls of his office all day
the thumb couldn't crush the reflections of bugs
when he wasn't showing me how to squeeze the trigger, the thumb merely lazed on its belly next to him

Search This Blog

There was an error in this gadget

Followers