Sunday, December 9, 2012


In the Belgian Congo, Tintin thought maybe the primitive skateboard the locals put under the turtle was supposed to serve as the turtle's legs, mentally.
But there was nothing there except wooden turtle.

Maybe only darkness suffers from halitosis.
But there's nothing there except darkness.

A corset tied tightly around pharmaceutical vase water can fix the incontinence of somebody downwind. Make room for a lot of laughter, because a whole face is returning – make room for a face returning – a whole map of a face.
The language of eggshells articulated skintight in hubcap pottery.

The Crypt Keeper basically only rakes in what's left of the darkness.
In a car's headlights, darkness is a ruin of darkness. Darkness goes out with a glug of enema eyes in unambitious curdle.
There is restless saturation in any sluggish toilet paper, mental or inanimate. A face haemorrhoidally dim with beached chin.

100% defacement of a turd run over in traffic and/or gas bent saccharine.
The sudden loss of sound when a car radio is turned off is a shock and a distraction, sometimes.
Fossilized toilet paper is now the weird annoyer. Leathering back to leather on the fossil's toilet paper side.

You can't see the ninja because it's invisible. Talking to the ninja is like talking to a plank in the floor.
Stand very still and don't make a sound.

The natives imagine what Tintin must look like through electronic eyes.
100% chameleon-green, but flexible, responsive to color – a psychosomatic trampoline of circuit board alchemically haemorrhoidal on the robotic sock of weird electronics.

A dream is a balloon that bleaches instead of pops. Like a monster toppled, it becomes transparent. The look on the bleached haemorrhoid's face is of a face given back its normal pH; the look on its face of a face drinking its own spit.

On the notepad beside the telephone the haemorrhoid Tintin had doodled out of boredom with a sharpie haemorrhoided – out of boredom – into a daylight-impaling haemorrhoid.
I'm here,” Tintin wrote on the daylight-empty page, “in a primitive country, to study the vagaries of growing one's pocket calculator inward.”

He later awoke in the wall of the doodle.
The footprints he left on the beach were alkaline. 


Thursday, December 6, 2012


Using the creamy artifice of gravity, Gollum sits on the couch.
Which, through the same artifice, he has puked on. 
Deep-throat pastures recover the yeti's aura in forgotten old lung.

The pool attendant's tongue finds the same harmony in the farty skidmarks of CPR – flexible toast in the ensuing blotch-pattern; corpse-indentation loving it some hydrotherapy from the last magical driveby primate. A crunchy embolism soul-cleanses on the laser's crank.
The pool absorbs a dull clunking. A comet is steered by its own septum. Energizer bunny goo becomes airborne by its own useless weight.
How many levels of chlorine are we talking, grandmother-soaked?

My brow is dry and old. My brow's aura is keeping its goose feathers young.
Fat, open-hearted sinuses: lurking with how many levels of pool attendant?
Shouldn't the mouth I'd made space for in my brain – the only brain in my cluster of craniums – have eaten a wet electrode by now?

In their View Master, my tits enjoy the comforting blur of a carwash vaudeville.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012


Every moment in time is time spent in the loo, in an arc of exhaust fumes, healing milk and sea-partings.
From time to time, we all lose our odor.

To have the odor of a crowd is to be very complete. Romulan proverb.
But all my friends have lost their odor, to an aether buzzing with sea-partings.
I had unclogged a bomb with healing milk.

Aided in this vice by a mechanical hip, Moses was addicted to bowling.
Closet aether runs through the Porous Maid, softly, like drying glue.
At every second of every day, one kitten prunes.

And the air inside one closet turns stale with exhaust fumes running spongy against claustrophobia or a proximate nervous breakdown.
The muppet's bioluminescent deathshead divined from bath salts, the old man's walker freighted with 6th dimensional ore.

The hobo's arcing body odor, hung with personalized soak.
It is easier to catch diarrhea with gardening shears than to be likable. No wonder everybody is recapturing their bog; nobody knows how to like.

To be incomplete is to be very Moses. Density opens a drawer full of sea partings, a bra full of numbers, an old man's rectum full of birds.
Photoshopped from every direction like a sugar cube browning between Satan's thumb and forefinger, making air run off its tectonic plates in accidental numbers. But that's bowling for you.
The hive's buzzing is accidentally sexy, forging a little figurine of dried bog in cell phone language through lapses in Starbucks aether.

The hive's buzzing revealed in mechanical failure, i.e. a random smut of robotic spouting and untrammeled crook. That which accidentally glues the legs of spiders to tropical density is a tool.
The muppet loses its fittings in dissociative aether, in a harvesting of plank and a lunging of mannequin carcass. The mustache of an exploding head must try to keep its poise; in the mirror, the wavelength of Alfred E Neuman's exploding head had been assigned a fun-sized curl.

Although it aims ballistic contraceptives from a costume of simulated tropical gulch, the hobo's density can be raped.
This way you can measure the perfume of his density in numbers – if you're made of black sugar and weeping from a necrophiliac sock.

The beekeeper's mind forged a buzzing of accidental numbers that were accidentally sexy. She opened a drawer full of lapsed points in cereal aether discovered by eyes made of snaking milk.
During the ceremony, each participant sat next to the next participant at the adjoining table, in Starbucks.

Out of my way, Moses.
I need to use the loo.

The hobo's density has discovered purgatory's environmentally-friendly puddle.
As a seamless shadow of chins, his blood is invincible.
Satan has dropped the whole cockroach's eye into a joke mug.
Harvesting the graveyard's sea-parting of dried tectonic spidersnot with a single mustache.
In the mirror, the firefly practices her bioluminescent polyp.
In the mirror is a lifeless tectonic plate beneath the reflection of an areola.
A light object. “I'm now standing on an environmentally-friendly concrete curb.”
The mirror memorizes the reflection in its fibers. That's the firefly's ceremony. A sprinkling of nothing.

Monday, December 3, 2012


It's raining dark matter outside and the Christmas tree is lying in the bathtub, a gummy composite of meat's reflection.
Some people have a phobia of other people who have inhaled helium.
The Christmas tree is inhabited by jungle rubbish.

The Transformer tries to hold its NASCAR wang.
The chain of impulse behind the piss in the goat's beard eclipses whatever is behind the dreamy abyss in its lower jaw.
It's too much NERF for comfort.

I smell a blender. A dozen poor, destitute, homeless, dirty, hapless, deleted yawns in a blender, smeared.
Adamantium sits blissed-out in the kitchen sink, like the mumbling of an old man's mouth sheathing an electron.
NERF-cloaked, like a virus estranged for its singularity. Disinfectant bleeds a bunch of outlines of drone-algorithm; that quiet, unusual place; thinner and thinner.

My palm becomes thinner and thinner. A harsh people-carrier with empathy's joystick-operated drone-algorithm inseparable from its ripe-sauna singularity. Transformers simulate Alzheimer's deleted smears, Transformer feces staring back up from the toilet bowl with deleted eyes; waving.
Bringing his hand too close to his own face, the caveman's palm is cloaked.

With a spoon held to the cockroach's face, the Storm Trooper studies its mono-skeletal cockroach reflectivity.
Before embellishing the spoon with a cloak of brain fluids.

Bananas carry people better than any carrier of burdens.

In Starbucks, nothing haunts like nature's naturally cloaked cells.
They fuck shit up.
The difficulty of removing nature's naturally cloaked cells from coffee. Stone, apparently disconnected from the threat of a bunch of voids – Why can't you go back to the point where a black hole's nightmare talking head is play-doh-simulated?
Lying in the bath thinking about thunder: Thunder is an all or nothing type of ogre.

A gummy composite of phantom limb dark matter, with which the Christmas tree twinkles. Meat's quiet place, and the cells that sport meat's quiet place's spider-smell.
Something is moving very slowly in the blender. A prosthetic cell, smiling.
Every Hero has her Foil.
Dorothy Gale's foil's prosthetic tinfoil cell smiles perpetually. The oil climbing up the blender's sides is the oil trailed across a trailer park by the maggot samurai's mechanical hip.

Mud nevertheless pulls at the humanoid mud-wrestler's dentures. Which literally is like sneezing when you have a hole in your temple. His or her t-shirt is his or her most sensitive textile, understandably. Both smile: the mud has removed both t-shirt and humanoid's outlines.

Mud is an all or nothing type of ogre.
Father maggot, mother maggot, son maggot, daughter maggot – know ghetto aether.
In the backyard, a delusional butterfly. Delusional because it's new meat.
Like the unconscious swinging bulb in Agnes' nose after she shot herself in the temple.

Delusional because the bulb has no maker.
And new.

Sunday, December 2, 2012


Omission occurs very transparently. A bulging magnetism hugs e.g. the memory of my appendix.
There is such a thing as a humane herpe. The omission of a humane herpe occurs with a beveled magnetism.

When I yank the ripcord left in the wound by the doctor after my appendectomy, all the wonder and drama of a hamburger's nocturnal emissions are reversed-engineered from a river's burning discomfort.
'Geology' and 'context' overshadows the stretched asshole with tiered goatse.

Walmart smarms itself against another Biblical infestation, a veritable superhero fighting God's crimes with his thyroid bulge.
I grab another handful of dry frog.

She flicks paranormal lint over her shoulder. It sounds like Glockenspiel when she blinks.

I want my disease to be a wandering, rubbed-off elephant instead of a double-sided adhesive stuntman.
My pimp once wore his leather clown cyborg hairstyle subepithelially.
Complaining later that it lacked any hidden features. He wanted the whole hairstyle not to be seen.
His next looked like a zombie's elbow obfuscating his mouth. The next was filled with patterns so dense, it looked like a cliff. The next hairstyle my pimp had kept absently tugging at my pimp's head. The next hairstyle was so symmetric, it created a low ominous droning.

I know that, at this point, it's a bit late to tell you this but: there is a version of the song 'Creep' that doesn't contain the word 'very'.
A hardcore pornographer cannot mimic softcore dengue. Something other than LEGO is responsible for the Crypt Keeper's skin condition.
Despite its general pissed-off gestalt, Karma has thus far not nuked my household pests.
The daily goings-on of my virus are conducive to the shit crust around its jaws. If it alleviates the burning in my virus' lips, who said you can't fight fire with shit?
Shit in a plastic bag burning on your doorstep is an obfuscated bomb.

You're lying in bed, on your side. You partner lies behind you. Now, do you think those were peanuts that just hit you behind the head?
Those were in fact nunchucks. Your lover goes to bed leaving courtesy behind. Her nocturnal discharges emerge from the afterlife in the form of bleeps.
But you: a courtesy hand in front of your mouth leaves tire profiles in your scrambled eggs.

The patient became so unreasonable during one of the sessions as to remind the psychologist of a bear in a tutu.
Inkblot as redoable thistle, unreal afterbirth as bat soap.
Its dripping has no ass. Upper lip upends giant kite.

The inkblot gaped from an oilcan.
The bear had a beach ball on its head.

In the garbage chute, we learned that I had been a 'difficult birth,' due to my cuddling unevenness before long, towards the exit, forming a haunting wetsuit.
I looked like an oilcan due to my erect penis and my gaping spherical oil spill, and therefore had to be removed with clamps.
Dirt melodramatically sucked onto my mother's folded hidden ogre like an annoying stuntman's cliff-dive nosebleed.

Saturday, December 1, 2012


The noose has crashed in 3-stage clot.
The negative collects in a headstink of mindfulness. Skeletal and tinny, television breaths reassemble in a valve's sexy gargle.

A difficult vegetable is usually segregated from fun. Such a vegetable is usually a clamshell. He or she quietly suffers some kind of outbreak – layers of Velociraptor wart descend the emphysemic silence.

An outbreak of pomegranate. The body of Christ in an alternate universe riddled yellow-toothed, a coin-operated doodle. Lactation ejecting the mole through an orbital scissoring. Neuroscience’s hazy burgling of faulty borders at the angle of an alien's toe.

As we all know, stuffed gum resurrects from gum.
A bouquet of gum resurrects from gum. Layers interacting in a stuffed resurrected bouquet of gum in brain-damage time-lapse.
Something missing fills up with noise, from such an exhaustively harvested resurrection.

I'm longing for the more casual and relaxed circuitry of the perpetual nuke, haunted upload twisting with brain-fat and low-hanging Knorr – whose ribs I will sort of climb into bed with.
We lean casually against the bubbling stove.

The suckers of an amnesiac hinge on a difficult vegetable, determining the amount and variety of her past and future.
A grave's ejaculations create the same ambiance as my Camry’s backward puffs. Their screams' toxicity producing an echo of positrons.

Like a bevy of corrupt cops, a bevy of corrupt thumbscrews tore down Bubble Boy’s lobe. He is now an otherworldly tripod which eats and farts atrophy.
Like a werewolf, the heel of an amputee leaps from the rabbit hole.

The hug of an emphesymic house spider triggers diffusion. Such zero connectivity is not segregated from fun.
A cyst receives revelations in 3 stages of clot. Disguised with laser. Brain-fusing between disaffecting tensions.
Having learned that nothing is tactile to Occam’s razor, alien invaders masturbate a diabetic’s lunch.

You don't want to be an unintelligible object. You don't want to be an unintelligible object positioned somewhere in the room while Sauron is watching the sitcom: his vigorous heartbeats all tend to bang on unintelligible objects.
Behind Audrey II’s lip, there's a warmth. Anatomical vase water ghosts in the craw of sand.
Acid reduced to pellets can't be licked out. They don't work. They can't be soaked in liquor. Can't be stuffed with negative.
This syndrome is stuffed with subjective feelings' meta presence.

I twist into the shape of a humanoid dog.
For a second, my chinos look like a portrait of chinos. Fake leaves blow around our junk's junkyard. Zero connectivity copies its arms from a plant. Xenomorphic snoutskin levels its cold vector at its own reflection in the astronaut's visor from a base of non-biodegradable dickcheese.
In our cunts, two brains shall dodder before the contraction's snoring methane.

With his low-hanging whiskers hovering above an energy drink, the hybrid coroner gives the best golden showers.
A corpse lies prone on the yellow brick road. A ghost commits its spirit to the bosom of the Coca-Cola evening shade, little bits of dirt trapped in its eye shadows' outer wax.

Monday, September 24, 2012


Sweet. Hitler only had one nut.
An armpit had to have been removed gently from the testicle.
But is this an ideal flaw? I would let Steve Buscemi
cluster our masturbatorium with his eyes, yes.
But the shrine may still not work! You may experience
the loud suction of cheese. Let your nipple
stare out from the thyroidal eyelid, bleached. Listen,
if you care to take a peek, each death is still there.
The Sun is on a CD. Technologically, every pig's hemorrhoid is a
pulpit-on-a-chip. Inflatable like the day it was born?
Maybe not. Tasty? Hark, with its weird flow inflammation
laces the corn on your toe fluorescent. At least the washing machine
will no longer keep falling out of a pterodactyl.
This supernatural block wants to mingle electrochemically
with knives and forks! The frenzied wrenching of the ghoul 
deposits pulp on the beach. People will think it's merely rain 
sticking to their umbrellas. Unbeknownst to e.g. that child on a bicycle,
his helmet is a panorama.

Friday, September 21, 2012


I really love the light on this hamburger. It had followed the dirty directions of the Yeti's mons. The naval would unfold during rest, whereas before its personality was rather slight. Why turn one's pet's jizz's causation into a study? Such transmissions are terribly single-celled. The tungsten nurse getting jiggy with holes in the ground. Off those lights, the moth is sluggish, the Dalek is pimped out with prefab Crazy-Armor, and my circus-skinned big head needs a transplant. Hoe en masse. Hoe the pitch black compounds that wrap the slippery gnarl like the mosaics that give Disney its fake-looking sores. Sombre dinosaur, I challenge your vague claspers. Office stationery are an organism used in arthritic porn. That discolor upon being forgotten. My affinity for chewing my pencil. My pencil's affinity for probing my froth. See below for what could make the contraption: a) Jesus lizard across one's eyeball grooves, b) loathe ping pong so much as to fall completely silent mid-back arm. Over time the time machine has retained its shelf-life and pizazz. I told the formaldehyde that its kitsch sack was busy taking my soul and I told the shit-smeared underpants caught on the left wing of my time machine that it was a perfect accessory for my burial. It was so beautiful because it was so stationary on my time's gale, a Pac-Man blob's gait matching the surroundings of its terrarium.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012


After a while, the nostrils of the hominid waiting
by the phone fall asleep. His tongue finds the
cognitive scroll wheel on his palate. Something
in him begins to find this pleasant.
The boogers suspended from the ceiling of
THIS planetarium hum. Waiting turns the hominid
into smog. Smog clippings or shavings flash around in
the smog. The mental disorder is funny because it's so long.
Like bile, or indeed heavy rain. The digits missing 
behind these eyes pogo. The hologram excretes 
5 minds. Following the fright I had on discovering
the outside world's depth, I heard, saw, and felt
only on the surface. THAT baby was me. I go 
outside and frisk my garden. I don't stop until 
all the plants have receded. People in built up areas 
provide a more realistic image of themselves than 
Tupac projecting through a towel.

Sunday, September 16, 2012



milk the

like a

droidcrunchy twitches
3 times in one day,

cedes your turbine –

like a lemonade stand
on Hot Wheels

dark matter
wearing a pit

the level of
impact of a

resets the deer
back one cinematic

poor ghoststeak
fakes a brain

evolution in

sideshow freak


mince recurred
in one place disembodied,
illegally, ineligibly

if the periodic table of elements
ever went to shit
the farm would relax

Friday, September 14, 2012


From being tickled again, some coagulation would later
occur again. Like nodes stressed under mysterious subliminal
budding, droplets would pupate on my legs. A pinball's number of
increments networked, reconstructed as an “L”. Likewise
an “R.” Bunnies limit my diabetic coma's acoustics.
The tooth in the feather duster did nothing wrong.
I made a sound recording of my plow both while
rehydrating upon a struck vein and while churning independently
of the earth. If death squads are soluble around jukeboxes,
why wouldn't ordinary social behavior endure storage?
Nothing can remedy the matter: you're sinister because
you remain pristine amid food fights. The rat's asshole
is unborn, it says on an ad banner. The adorable splash of
rough edges is simply a prototype. Computers digest in
low-budget blitz, with a 'Welp'. Do you think tragedy is lame?
Asteroids try to rely on levitation as their proudest, biggest effect.
They yield the stains of brain waves. Acres of gulps between
gaps on this weird algorithm's guided tour, in a condom's eye line.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


My buzzer is no longer gentle or autumnal.
BBs ruffle interplanetary fur.
In other words my shower head's whistling is warped;
certain parts of the array's nipple rattle.
Jets are lopped off at the root. Have you ever
been nitpicked?

At the kitchen tile's core, the fossil is visible.
A saw-toothed humanoid insect protrudes from 3D mist.
Electrodes are lasciviously intent on the movable section of
a disease. Ridges on Chilled Thai taint –
a low-hanging window so marvelous,
familiar materials traced in pages that refer
to other pages. My mask is tangible.

Why, I remember asking my robot maid, would the accelerometer
make you prance around like that?
It all started going downhill from there...
From where Bicentennial Man skateboarded
a smidgen of static electricity to death.
Where now a retard dabbles in the colorful husks
of bacteria corpses. Was this just our universe – in
denying its own dearth – being senile?

Something in the vents seems pretty eager to intervene.
I smell ammonia on emotionless breath.
Had I, at some point, pissed on the stove? I remember thinking if
a human's normal distribution points wouldn't 'open up' automatically,
why –

why not jiggle them manually?

Clumps, switched on, form 'mood'. These are the atoms
of nuclear families. They may not be volatile.
An atom is merely a head stuffed until glaring.
It lives in supermarkets. In houses. In schools.
Public transport drags them along. A schoolbus quivers past –
desperately holding on to dirt and other particles.
With nostalgia I think of my robot maid:
her hands could get very cold with eagerness.
But when winding down after a long day, she had a
beautifully weak chin.

Monday, September 10, 2012


The embolism makes it tricky for the horse.
A fat kid tentacle grabs
a slurry of mother brine.
The sun rides up to my neck
in placid floating gamma-ray tangles.
The fogging, willing cascade of Kent.
Hulk is cheap and dangerous.
Crochet deadening unto smoothie.
Netflix latches filthy bathrobe
on to lazy species with the remote's
compassionate cough in my hand.
Pussy eating the talking bin.
Then our house burned down
and the cinders inexorably sucked
the ruin whirly.
The community was absorbing.

Thursday, September 6, 2012


Neon in the roaming wad
introduces the false condition
within reality TV's radius.
Looping, love-owning aquarium.
Barbed, ball pit ambiance.
Bathing hypodermic needle in arm's length's drone,
intimacy will intertwine with it height-wise
as if with a broom. At the edges of housedirt.
Conjoined twins have many 'nooks and crannies.'
Brief bodily functions free improperly.
A mundane condiment impaired the vortex.
Soup symmetrically. Spit abnormally.
Once original places for loud, tinny noise,
buckets did not appreciate the ape's plug.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012


In Woolworths, I lug stuff around until I get used to it.
Death rests on a slope. Basically I long for it.
I seek some sort of reprieve from lugging things around.
And it seeks some sort of reprieve from wiggling.
That is something death does, by the way (i.e. wiggle) – that's a
sign it is alive, like breathing, like a beating heart.
Daylight completely reverses, to the folks inside the spaceship,
so fucking fast the spaceship moves.
In space, space is a very cold spot.
On Tatooine, creatures are varied as fuck.
Death is bored and restless and basically wiggles.
The monster is bored and basically needs to be pressed
down firmly under the child's bed if it is to ever stay put.
Everything in my childhood bedroom was poorly held by a string,
which accounts for my vague memories of childhood.
To Dracula, 'chicken nuggets' is just a phrase.
It's still sometimes difficult to use it as a villain's one-liner,
and sometimes it sounds too shrill.
Proffering that feeling in the brain tantamount to the
feeling proffered by brushing one's teeth.
When something is infected, the part that's infected starts snapping.
As in viciously.
A chicken nugget to Dracula looks like a puppy covered in a film.
All my membership cards and credit cards are laminated.
Cocaine has not been kind to their edges' natural color.
Shaving his pacemaker gives it a wet green external look, Jaba finds.
Its ringtone heralds the end times and has been memed to shit
on the internet where it has also corroded into a stark black grid.
At any given moment on Tatooine, a bulging assortment of creatures
are pushing and pulling at a fussball table.
My iron lung is my personal material.
My iron lung is good people.
It's its disguise (i.e. the film that covers the puppy is the puppy's disguise).
After passing through the solipsistic lens of a psychopathic slasher,
the arc of the celebrity sex tape slakes its rot on our very cosmos,
which is cryonically pressed down on anything that
fits its form, which basically nothing does. Everything dies.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012


From where it perches on the furniture's
most vertical parts, I radio-control
my gargoyle's armpit farts.
It nods unnaturally, tonguing itself
in one deluxe, chin free fugue.
Catatonia is simplicity. Custom magnets
foaming in knots. The prism of
gray matter wrung alkaline.
Asthma lathers the morbid esophagus's
complex, forked paths manually.
Almost like labia that can preserve or hide
a tricycle. Spitting made beautiful in
the rapture of filaments and in
the ignition of dragon propane.
A plush effigy is burned when railing
against the country's mainframe computer.
Even our town's reservoir
wears a feral chicken sweater.

Monday, September 3, 2012


Anything, basically, growing on one's head
can channel a bias for an attractive hat.
The seat of Magneto's powers is in this – so not just
primarily in greasy moth hairs.

With a box cutter, the prophet morphs his gown into
a permanent, homy crawl space. His existence seems
to expand, and it is with this expansion that he swaddles
one corn dog after another.

Why? Why waste such a gift?

Follow Google Street View's loud, clunking cement mixers
on your PC. To unwrap the earth's crusts, they needn't travel
underground, thanks to a little trick: the GSV cameras are
placed inside the crusty drums, set at 1 revolution per minute.

Anal bleaching is lonelier. The Aztecs liked to lift their dirt
into the air – they did not keep their stratosphere murky
with optical illusions. Pork responds wheezily to handjobs.
You can hear boogers in a BB gun slide like ferrous marshmallows,
from side to side.

The princess's handmaidens had forgotten her in a
stack of mattresses. She couldn't call for help because
interaction with them in the context of a cube
was not appropriate. I think now the princess looks mild.

The Walking Dead are coming for you because they got tired of
constantly being emotional. I can tell that the moments
between parking lots, when they are permitted to get out
and stretch their limbs, are frustrating to all those crammed
into the Volkswagen. What Tetris has taught us is that
unifying, and melting, and swirling together – and eating
each other – make for sparser entities and/or parts.

Hence the eternal hunger.

Saturday, September 1, 2012


AIDS screws on Instagram.
Glands whore around a seahorse's ear.
Offer a cadaver the curviest environment, its bloating
will prove adaptable. Yet by now I'm sure
the human genome is quite constipated.

We need a new form of rocket science
to spawn a new form of ooze.
A few appendages cut off here and there
won't hurt, either. Starting, perhaps, with the
recurring horsehead on my butt.

I find dissection of a frog incredibly poignant.
Until the cotton peels out, and I feel
a little bit better...

A fax machine rests on the composite pancake shelf
of the human body, its pages evaporating raw in cycles.
A casket with no bottom is that beautiful place's
storm drain. Post nasal drip clunks loud
down the inner caverns of the porcelain figurine
and settles mouldering on a hidden microchip.

I only use robot bone marrow to do anything.
But it tends to accumulate folds, it tends to react to
certain harsh environmental transmissions by feeling all
garden-weedy. During breaks, one of the engineers
is given to painting his crossword puzzles silver.
Chemistry dismembers bonds until achieving a tacky sparkling.
Meth breaks down into gauze. Half-formed spines
crawl back into the sea. The more inconsistent
the jellyfish, the nauseouser.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


The constellation seems to cling. Mouse embryos
stab each other in their Martian jelly sac,
superimposing pee stains over their mother's moon's
hip, a comparatively small space to get clean.
The sprinkling wastes itself. With odd new body posts
imitating her original form, Snookie will come back
to haunt us. A prefrontal blob gyrating in a spoon
so that you cannot possibly shut off your mind.
The mutant is just my mess. A sombrero refused
in the crypt's shifting. Two things could've happened
to the surviving mouse: it could've set itself on fire in its
earth-return. The killer robot's Heimlich maneuver could've
uncoiled it. It could've simply fizzled out on
the killer robot's hand towel. Little bastard, you
could've given us all a very exciting performance!
A surge of blimp beneath the leaves. When not overrun
rich with snorkeling, nudity is omission.
A large, large, pleasing, pleasing capsule.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012


When you touch the Cookie Monster,
it feels like touching a horse.
It's hard to keep a deathbed's resin
off any such lush blue surface.
One could've sworn the final husk was
a lab-grown basket, death dragging it
straight faced. His poop-trails of comet rust.
The rot swinging through a mesh and making
his mourners spotty. Defacing the walls
psychedelically. A gallstone on a tether
keeps misaligning with its profane inner
grime. Forever seeking what constitutes a
Tic Tac. You have lost your badass filaments.
One tonsil is arrested electronically; the
other is a pop-up smiley attached to
a pedal, pops up, shadow boxes its hazards.
In life, one is not as pleasant as two.
In an alternate dimension, the mite merely
sits there, exhausted. It is a celebrity, therefore jaded.
Star of a medical blooper reel in which the arthropod is
circumcised with a fork. There's a din in the
background, not laughter, but similar.
There was only one fire extinguisher that
Freud ever found cute, for the same
reason Professor Xavier, his head baldly displaced
in headphones, only psyches out black trannies.
A straight jacket's auto-feeding habits
spindling truth in leather. A square diaper.
Long-legged, suffering from the glare.

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