Friday, December 30, 2011

THE EXTINCTION OF THE DINOSAURS

without excitation of the fork in the ice age,
a lot of samples of condensation
lie coiled within the pizza's
special zone,

but a comet decapitated
passers-by, their foreheads'
atlases shallowed

the first caveman brothel had a
cutout imitation
of a fire; geometric patterns
tilted so your brain ended up suffering
bunker parallax,
dirt-spit in your eye

abruptly, in the stone cold room,
a masked Mr. Potato Head
hologram: 'I am the ninja clitoris!'

the metrosexual dinosaurs' adhesive-filled
foot baths blamed for their extinction –
why else had
so many fossils been found
within arm's reach of fruit,
sirloin steaks, tubs of caviar, ice-cream –
as if glued to the floor?

but a time-traveler had seen it
in their public spaces:

not a diffusion of
bone-less winds, rather

an upskirt zoo-
powered,
cosmogonic 
cube - groomed until raw

so something else must have killed them

POISON EMPATHY

My drain is seeking another pattern or knot-style
in trapping its hair. Is it the new public shame chemical
my body produces and must have cellularly
begun to shed? It takes practice to trap the hair
this way, to arrange it just so – it will take
a good grasp of the logic underlying Lego pole dancing.
I was ashamed when another cyclops yesterday pushed
his/her shopping trolley past my black Mitsubishi –
no one can stand the sight of the handicap
sticker I've got on the back. After a day like this,
I take a shower and the drain clots with hair, while
glowing faintly. Of course I appreciate that EVERY handicap
sticker, if you squint at it, if you invoke a mood that fills your
eyes with clever little prisms, features a Kung Fu master in
the middle of kicking a foe in the nuts or smugly breaking
a cow's neck. This isn't a bad message I'm sending with the sticker.
I'm not even asking for sympathy, sticking it to the back
of my car. A week ago when I started the classes
it was quite hard to get used to the idea, the
feeling, of sitting next to a rotten corpse;
but not only do the rotten corpse and I now go to the same
bakery; our life improvement classes both encourage
showering after touching the drippy handle of human empathy.
And when I shower, the drain looks like this. But when the
corpse showers, the drain is pristine and even smells nice.
Weren't we all there to curry human empathy?
I touch it way more than the corpse does, or I bet even
the cyclops pushing his trolley. There are a few moments
afterward in which one doesn't know what next to expect -
very soon there's the feeling that traditionally
comes after a quick decapitation. One ceases to exist.
A turd floating in a jumpsuit, all of a sudden a different … personality
type. A dildo instead of a pacemaker. A nailgun
that can aim through, without necessarily disturbing, a
pretzel's heartbeat. A tandem bike that subjects
its occupants to electrocution, with the sound of a million
orphanages ringing from its spokes. A shining exemplar of
Victorian industrial design.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

ANTIBODIES!

A dollop's despair projection-mapped
on the toilet's interior. Definition higher in
the nightmare bulb's lurch; slopes swathed
with its smut. I think soon larvae will be
clotting the machine's husk, less smooth
than the epithelial linings of a
puppy's mouth. My heels, caught in its concrete,
one grade of unnatural higher. Webbed
and growing dense with arteries in
the morgue fridge, semi-translucent.

Cancellation of this war is nothing like
combining the germ's 7 pretty digits –
which are integral to making its pantomime
of attacking antibodies offensive, sort
of in bad taste. Circumventing excrement
on the pavement with the dubstep;
or causing excrement with same.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

THE WORST WEDDING CATERERS ON THE PLANET

Cavemen for many years had been indescribably bored.
Inevitably, they repurposed the forgotten/discarded instrument
of brainwashing, fitting it with a crude wick that when snuffed in
an emergency – cavemen began to jabber and do embarrassing things uncontrollably under mind control, making their colleagues nervous; it was
left to the discretion of the brainwasher himself whether a line had
somehow been crossed – focused Ugg's concentration solely on
a small, tar-based mind object. Restoring calm.

I was surprised to discover that after being possessed by the devil,
my hip flask was not only less tasty, but also more emotional.
It was no longer portable, for it began to shake and spurt when lifted
up and placed in my pocket, wetting my trousers. When I pawned it, the clerk
ask me: 'Who will be next to suffer the antics of this
emotionally unstable hip flask?' 'Fuk u,' I remember replying,
rudely – the only other thing I remember from that day
was getting run over by a truck upon exiting the pawn shop.

Religions that worship a god whose kindness is proven by his pride
in a death-defying comet which traveled a very long distance
without hitting anything.

Testing his theory of relativity by lying spread out in
a spiderweb, tongue lolling over his bottom lip, eyes rolling,
Einstein briefly wept and lasers did fire briefly (directionlessly) from his eyes.

A squid's vanity aided by a tentacle-full of assorted random
pharmaceuticals, it couldn't stop watching itself in a puddle,
and it couldn't stop seeing a beautiful frog in a tutu.

The senseless towel, ensconced in the wedding buffet, looked like
a fingerprint. Forensics had found a match for the fingerprint
in every sauna the world over. It smelled like the makeup
of a punched transvestite.

Some praise the common lettuce's memory's accuracy and absorbency.
A new model of facial recognition software is being worked around the
same principle, that will incriminate the Michelin Man at every street corner
pickpocketing in reach of CCTV. In London. 
 
Augmented bodily with lost or stolen goods of customers over the years –
as if he were a powerful magnet dragged through a junk yard –
the clerk at the pawnshop where I had pawned my hip flask had
gradually become more deadly. And mean. And spangled.
The clerk saw the fate of each customer entering his shop change
before his very eyes. The small thrill this gave him made his accoutrements
clunk dully.

Observing the threesome in a porn movie I had out of curiosity rented,
I couldn't help noticing how close together the parties involved were.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

THE LIFE COACH CLEANING HIS TOENAILS IN HIS LAIR

Is the gluten boogie a form of cannibalism?
The life coach cleans his toenails in his lair with a bent-open paperclip,
brooding. Why is his worst fear as a grown man to be eaten alive?
Wondering if he should come out with it,
because the answer (he believes) is fascinating: the
body sheds cells, the cells go into our clothes,
and one day whoever eats him will take said
clothes to a laundromat – now, this is where he (he believes) might be
reanimated from the cells and stains (chocolate cells) in the
clothing of the folks that had eaten him. Why is he so afraid of water?
Of bubbles? Of spinning around in a machine?
Bonnie & Clyde aren't merely passive aggressive.
They're also socially awkward. Victims of neglect by their friends.
The spacecraft isn't working properly until someone
Pepsi-burps the Outer Limits tune into the ship's vents.
Causing said spaceship to first bounce a little. Called a courtesy bounce.
Of which the life coach would be terrified, since he's
terrified of the machines that traditionally populate laundromats.
People find the Ukrainian answer to chemo cruel: butterflies.
The pelvic strut bought on eBay helps the dying old man
ride his iron lung down the street like a fucking daredevil.
He also bought a pedal for enhancing his halitosis. Open mouth –
step on pedal. The harder you step, the more intense the halitosis.
Havoc. Mayhem. Total bedlam. Oh his breathing shall roar...
I wouldn't say it was merely acceptable – I'd say incest at
our house was positively bitchin' when my aunt brought out the cakes.
Spaceships cause cancer. The paperclip will eventually eat the
life coach's toe alive. Putting a measuring tape around the ghost
of his toe's waist. The answer to why things diminish is zero point two.
Waiting for the decimals to queue up after compound of shed cells...
Cake chloroform-soaked dangling over face while face frowns
with pleasure. Called laundromat reanimation. Lights. Blipping. Marquees.
Sporadic failure of Vegas to flap and fizz fashionably.

EGREGIOUS SPOON ENSEMBLE

Merely lying next to its video game-playing owner the big, slack-lipped dog
is sexually satiated. In its dreams: those skirmishes with a midget and the
hum of its engulfing glitter. Just like it, I hate chasing stationary objects.
All her and my spoons distanced themselves from everything temporal
by astral projecting on New Year's Eve through a glob of black ash.
Hellboy earned his skin with a healthy disregard for weight
of homemade pinkish stuff. Twisted dripping kraut & waves that
melt with his beard. She professed her love as a different
version of hellspot. An onion shat out by a yeti, becoming an island
unto itself. Dog thought midget lover's antlers' constant visible
pasta objectionable. I knew our spoons were working to build a
convincing impersonation of the neighbors' android maid.
The present, and the pleasant truth behind its tractor beam's garter
of smoke near the terminus of our living room. How were we to know
that when they came back ten years later, they'd be given to
talking to themselves in a near constant stream? As one entity?
Big and shiny? Exactly like the metallic maid? Loud! Fortunately no one
would listen anyway.

Monday, December 26, 2011

DINOSAUR ROCK MUSIC

Scum both sides of the synapse. Regretting trying to calm it
down with a flyswatter. View stretches out from trepan
hole in skull to National Geographic in lap. Mashing pie into
face does not really stop leaking. After all this effort, skeleton of
dinosaur reconstructed. Then bumped over by goddamned monocycled
monkey. One membrane – the one that would be responsible for all of
dinosaur's orgasms – is a pretty good imitation of a table cloth.
Hear death by bringing it back to life. Prior to discovering
amazing sadistic power, thought waterboarding pet mouse pretty metal.
Either bad case of tinnitus or literal ear worm slowly trying
to forge mist patches in peripheral hearing? Trying to remain
distracted by reading stupid National Geographic article: at Hogwarts,
in one of the teachers' bidets, a fossil was embedded in the old,
shit-stained porcelain. After team of geologists carefully pried it free
and turned it over, they discovered inevitable Made in Germany label.
What strong affinity between weird fossil and old sock!
Ah and oh the bloody wind that blows from hole in skull –
whiskers have long since been severed by icy airflow facilitated
by aerodynamics of head. In these and many other respects skull = not perfect.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

WHEN THE TRIBE OF HEADHUNTERS LEFT THE PLAY PARK

Judging by the awful smell, we knew that it was shark bait
some waggish family member had sent us via FedEx.
It was as if an incredible stench had suddenly dropped through
a hole in the air. The sense of it never left. On our anniversary,
it fell gruesomely from the party planner's bloody Ziploc.
I was gravitationally attracted by its filth's mass.
My newborn child delighted more in the chronic vibes
coming from the cockroach that had caught fire and was
running around on the tarpaulin, the earth's poles navigating
its instincts. All the while emitting really strange, not altogether
bad vibes. Only the innocent could see the magnetic fields
around its tiny mouth, like a goatee of metal shavings.
One guest forgot his submersible facial butt probe in our
bedroom, a device for detecting designs flaws – you could almost
hear the one, masked end of the tubular device ask the other,
spouty end: “What are the chances of a whole chess set in there?”
Dinosaurs died out and their world was subsequently
overgrown with weeds, like when the tribe of headhunters left
the play park and their faded skulls and gewgaws conveyed
a depressing solitude. The bad father lies. Everything he offers
his newborn child is a knock-off. He says that Angry Birds
are merely projectile, tinsel-crowned black heads – and that is how they
play the game, for hours. Dressed smart and speaking really posh,
he hopes the infant would mistake him for an actual light saber.
The bad lover considers it really kinky to draw a map of their
own entrails. Aromatherapy makes the bad terrorist's pipe bomb
curl up like a cat. Of all the people we invited to our anniversary
party, only the zoophiliac hit upon the idea of standing
by the salad bar to cheer himself up. In a stroke of genius,
the party planner had dragged a troll along; reportedly, looking
at one reduced anxiety and a sense of failure. Not surprisingly,
by the fifth hour our troll was already looking terribly self-conscious.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

HOLLOW STATES

Chewing on an old computer hard drive
the maestro's teeth indirectly manipulate his bowel movement's
memory foam into the shape of a duck. Knowing that when it
morphs, Nutella provides the gloomiest of thrills.
An optical illusion of the hotel's impending implosion
made possible by the folded spaces between
acupunctures on the fake luggage in the lobby.
The elephant in your silence grandly twitches its ears – ears
wired to Nowhere's three densest gravitational loci.
Combining to form a chicken in the drywall: both real and imagined.
After wearily climbing off his gurney, the patient saw it
covered in meatless dots. In heavy silence.
Wonder what happens to the loose change in the pockets of mall Zombies.
One looks like it has a booger duct-taped to a leak.
The back-alley acupuncturist says he loves 'doing' fake luggage.
Deals directly with the symptom of said luggage not being able
to 'move their hollow states.' Some really empty people, for example,
require a special apparatus with a special built-in sack.
Darth Vader's gifts on Christmas are all really amazing; they are
all stuffers of the hollow states of amputees such as himself.
How he meditates on stopping the seizure from crawling –
with the sound of a pencil sharpening – down his
favorite pig roast. In the next room someone's routinely
measuring a stormtrooper's Ph.

Friday, December 23, 2011

ARMAGEDDON IN THE TIME OF THE NEANDERTHALS

From the sinusoid underlayer of Tiananmen Square
a black, spoodgy warmth escaped. The leftover patches of cold
in between distinguished your feet as bloody accidents in
slippers. The continuous wizard thumping, far in the distance,
was Santa playing on the fears of the nearby posse of Neanderthals.

With embarrassing special effects, the earthquake
resurfaced. It didn't even seem like bubblegum to
the small group of Neanderthals. Was it a hoax?
For on the box it said: “Shake first.” And though now it
was no longer a myth, the earthquake still seemed very low-budget.

The moon landing was categorical proof that I lived
alone in my little apartment. I thought the guys
bobbing up and down on the television had
been my flatmates. I looked down feeling disgraced
in my flip-flops. I looked at my Where's Waldo poster
on the wall – remembering with shock that Waldo didn't even exist.

Dream transmission end.

An error in judgment like this takes the sentimentalism
right out of atheism again. Miracles didn't exist, and when
they did it was in the form of the morning-after pill making
an exception: the result being a steel-pronged taco, Smurf-laced w/
stick-on pose - the way it stands there and the attitude it strikes.
It seems stuck on. And why the hell is it so blue?
In the last throes of dying, the group of Neanderthals therefore
feels ashamed of what a bunch of poseurs they have been all along.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

THE DEVIL VISITED MY URN

I moonwalk the hangnail's longitude,
blue from the future. The controversial prophesy about my jersey.
Non-skid loaf: spliced ninja enough with its pheasant wingspan.
A guitar solo preamble to being shorn uniquely.
Your favorite pulley is transoceanic, together with a little picnic
hamper. Providing the wherewithal for fucking the
sea monster's ulcer. Ripples are the only difference between
ripping a witch's trellises and splotching a supermarket urn.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

I REMEMBER 1983

I remember 1983.

It was the year the petrol telephone debuted.
At the time thought to be the most energy efficient mode of communication.

In the field of parental computing, 1983 also saw the
launch of the Tetris Hang Birth – a hideous experiment in
gappy teeth breaking into your slimy produce bag from a height –
the tension in stuck body hair moaning like whale tendrils in duvet crust.

The year-long unexplained solstice in every bowl of cereal...

Significantly, every mugshot showed its trapped occupant adept at
hangovers that made the eyes look like puffer fish.
In science, the discovery of the platonic brontosaurus hand job
mole-button meditation atom...
Insomnia too boring? Remembering that it was 1983 was
enough to induce frog-like stupor. Instead a
a whole nation sat replenished the infectious landfill that was
their country by scraping more life off its flu.

Left bionic vibrator met right bionic bean plunger – two members
of the same body! Our pet rabbit was a little too loud with
that PC fan, though.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

HOTDOG EAR

Spiral goatee
ham at
strangers.

Reflective depression
fuse dishwater.

Cock handgrab
hole for
old people

and 'heel & toe.'

THREE NUTSACKS AND SIX BRAINS

Many black and white nudes
clenched boggy in solvents –
forensics oiling and polishing
more bacteria than would fit
in an Uzi's clip.

Shouldn't have lost the cheat code that allows access
to a certain level on Dungeons & Dragons
where a player can privately court
and fondle cheap household wares.

Impossible NASA Rover – could be
THREE nutsacks your locomotion dragged
bumping over moon rocks – a horn
burnt in soft-tissue which by eating
Molotov Cocktails departiculated in
leper laxatives.

Whirring can make
the inanimate sick!

It begins to form slowly in the
sky above houses, schools, offices.
Hell, even my grocer's. How I wept
when my grocer demonstrated his
new slave technology – it sickened
the little group of bystanders,

when it sweated an apple's perspective into
the most romantic Stockholm syndrome.
In the classroom's educational toy
skeleton's clavicle, an animatronic maggot
became a pale white smoothie
in its Speedo. Telekinesis at an Xmas
office party daringly juggled/interchanged
SIX brains.

Monday, December 19, 2011

PYTHAGORAS PLAYED FOR GWAR

On a rainy morning King Kong
awakens under more hobo mind-control,
a post-menopausal assassin obeying
tired limbs. Sleep's silica – wet and stringy
after a long night castrating Tsetse flies.

On Halloween, in a crack house,
a hermit owns the dance floor.
What brought him here? And why
does he fit in so well? At
home, his Cuisinart had pointed him
to an unconscious awareness -
everyone is stupid.

Amidst the geometric shapes of
drunk friends there was something incongruous:
a yawning King Kong stomping past his window,
shattering it like a mosaic burp.

The hermit differentiated between smaller
triangles interspersed in brushing his teeth, and
a larger one in the harsh squeak of an enema.
Pythagoras saw them, too – ill from masturbating
with plutonium jelly in a Burger King – mentally
sporting Gwar shoulder pads.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I FORGET TO CLEAN MY LUNCH BOX

Enter The Lunch Box At Your Own Risk!!”
The peeling metal sign is a rather old photo of me in
my mossy sanctuary, hunched over,
absently playing with a twig.
At what altitude is the trapeze act avant-Sasquatch?
Pinball vertebrate in electricity, with crackles
precisely re-enacting a yawn. Terrible. Odorous surface variability.
An asteroid tenderized, its own sewage mourned operatically,
with some haunting coincidences in the soft fabric.
The pasta compartment best avoided at its most encephalitic.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

MY SISTER WAS CAPTAIN OF HER VOLLEYBALL TEAM

What looks like a compass, round and green,
doddering and spinning in the hollow of a slimy watermelon -
set in the crook of the handlebars – what can only be
the mucus membrane of my BMX.

Then I fell hard – a baby forever crawling toward the sign of
a precipitous drain in the non-diary rug. Meat thermometers
choose the most popular waistlines. Splashing yellow powder on
the wireless connection with your ventriloquist dummy.

Then I fell through.

Both the werewolf's Achilles Heels are hinges stolen from
a mechanism that neatly folds straight jackets. Let
loose in a chicken coop revamped as a Nando's.

I spent my teenage years with an irrational fear of the attachments
I feared missing from the matchboxes in my grandfather's tobacco cabinet.
Sawed my mother's swimwear into six knurled coneheads.
Child of the something that resurfaces in the eye
and crawls down the chimera of a photographed and framed vintage
volleyball team – of which my sister was the captain.
Something that needs promptly to be refrigerated.
Something that goes bad pretty quickly. 
 
The high static of the volleyball, on the beach, incorporates
everything redundant. Including praise.

Friday, December 16, 2011

WHERE ALL THE ORGANS WENT

sneezing on ghost town dust
on a nostalgic, Weekend at Bernie's-type casket ride

moving from gear 1 to gear 2 = crunching birdseed

kamikaze through segments of emotional trampoline –
half sandwich, half hobo; and the rain,
old taps = wind chimes in disguise

boxes on boxes of loneliness

when the baggage handler was
on the cusp of pinging his girlfriend with a brass nail
he'd mutated into a tuning fork / in deep meditation after
splitting his nail on a lock – & now it rings forever

before, life was an elaborate amoeba
in a mask, looking intrusive on a cookie tray
stacked high with cotton; i.e. our cavities didn't relay echoes

before, jerking off to a screensaver compiled by organ donors
was a suitable substitute

Thursday, December 15, 2011

MALL SANTA

a white,
pixellated
splat on
the ceiling
from
flies levering
proteins

the internet
commenter's
laser milk
swallowed
inversely

or the M&M
torpedoes
of the
colorblind
skunk

to them,
the sacred
deed of
setting the
expendable
on fire 
 
Kindle
wasteland –
in real life
a pear's
procrastination

like feathers
dropping
from a
black
octagonal 
pillow - 

Batmobile
chromosomes
trailing
Santa's
Segway

in a long
curve
through
the mall.

DIY delete:

where shall
I
stick it
soggy?

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

WE SENTENCED THE SOFA TO DEATH

carbuncle-saddled modern, shoehorned
somehow into futuristic solitude,
cavemen reduced to fondling grapefruit,
the grapefruit's wax atrophied from excessive teleporting,
upon disembowelment in large angry fist
produce strange corridor-length clanging,

the familiarity nevertheless of a golf cart,
ferret-embedded brutal soy
carved touchy-feely,

new-type food's mundane squirt,

royal wedding goat
clip-clops piss bearded –
segues with fauna of queen's nose hair

welcome to flat screen
organic/gel parking lot,
pleasing to the eye to displaced caveman,

trans-dimensional/gel parking lot an object of
extreme fucking beauty to
displaced caveman, hooey,

guy jogging ran over a diaper yelping
out its sponge-crotch implant, or perhaps
a rain-soaked bread loaf belching out
its fetus, surgical succor
with a finger trapped in a sandbox,

the sofa's lolling gape after sado-execution
reminiscent of home of cave brings smudge of
nostalgia to retina

Monday, December 12, 2011

LOST SOUL

poisoned memories of so many delightful, heartwarming commercials
in wake of slew of Soviet Russian knock-offs,
ad copy of Jesus' Neptunian meth lab calls for radical rewording
shepherd by mistake triggers something stupid,
sinks happy punctuation of sheep's bleats into laryngeal gnaw
wool turning into vivid, bloodless spray-on of depression
bullet hole perforation of salmonella death sex

impossible to find lost soul without manipulating thermal image
wearing bleedy genderless rat ski-mask Foursquare icon underground
cannot preserve status as awesome citizen – underground dweller
can only be looked at through layer of tar – possible to
wield complicated sewer system to tinker on bulges and dents
of thermal image – yet do not rely solely on large water droplets!
lost soul is 98% not washable!

nostrils a bit pruny from interminable sniffle, yet totally
safe, high and dry above ground in different state on different planet
part of gaggle of extraterrestrial farm equipment in waiting room, saying
to passing blue tentacled nurse how chair's like sitting on fucking cardboard

Sunday, December 11, 2011

NEXT DOOR

Sick in front of the television from
eating a fortune cookie that he'd found in a nuclear reactor.
You will rather successfully employ martial arts
as a pick-up line in a bar two blocks from where you live.”
But he realized that he'd first need to optimize his overalls,
for they'd be doing the talking; the spoon that was going to
serve as his spine had a tennis elbow.

His own vomit's harsh consonants digging graves
in the television for the characters of the soap he was
watching and lewdly enjoying to lie down in and sleep.
These graves were slack wet bags of exact body temperature.

A symptom of radium poisoning are bug eyes that
upload per liter. Similar to the stamp collector's disease
which facilitates fractals of huge Mars jugs to drop into their
pawn shop irises. Some collectors make out optical illusions
of smiley logos in clouds – they usually don't have long to live.
Unfortunately, radium is a drug that induces the afflicted to perform
deep knee-bends, and after some time one becomes pretty
stressed from the unbeatable impulse.

The old man reached for the cabinet next to him, opened
its doors, and fluttered his hand around in its ether.
Next door, his neighbor, a woman almost twice his age, was struck,
for the first time, by the fact of how much her living room
resembled a psychedelic gas station. In her bathroom stood a
battle mech shaving, muttering something about the relation
between sex and its tube.

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