Monday, January 9, 2012

BONER-INDUCING PACEMAKER

This is a scrapyard.

Where the scavenger had picked up a pacemaker.
A mole was growing on his chest above the
location of the pacemaker. It had once been so comfortable.

It was my boner in the clouds.

He'll only be able to reverse this amputation with magic or
with a cunt. Occasionally, you'll see the faith healer who'd told him this
on his pedal-cluster – like he's driving a complicated vehicle when he's
healing you. Although now he's more into golf.

Fucking with you as if by magic.

On dope, the scavenger is mystified by the beam – a concept, not an
hallucination – parked on the scrapyard's sociably organized lawn furniture.
[Although] being on dope equals my operating system filling up with leaves.
The Ghostbusters had once passed through here to do battle with
flesh-eating medical equipment, and Hoovered the beam up. The
Disney trail now presents as a black streak. 
 
Now it's getting a little annoying.

Some rats, an elusive theorem that evolved out of a shitheap of nuclear
waste made them into nicer vermin. Wild chirpy emoticons,
so distinct from the rest of the junk, the least labile and the least
possible to shoot in the junkyard, wearing cute, bulletproof makeup,
and chased after by a golf club-wielding sham healer, on and off exist
on this timeline.

The leak, neon green and possibly hazardous, looks stupid where it is.
It is where the mole has been. The faith healer works his bunch of pedals. 

Fool.
  
In a helmet of talcum, you cannot beat a germ unconscious.
In a splash of talcum, you cannot recognize a rash.


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