Friday, January 20, 2012


Cadaver. Out of places to put tissues.
Escape pod: one out of nine fence-humping canaries.
The mine of jazz dwarf purity
had belched velvet; the monster truck's dong had
tasted like chicken. The eater notchy from bulimia.
Hum garage abstract, hum. Colors of the map:
perhaps corduroy?


I'll capsule you without being overly heavy...
I do not think about these things
I think of urinal cakes in your palm.
Taco Bell pterodactyl: priapism to hold like a kite
on a hill at the loneliest point in the October 2004 wind.
Church turd pet fish bastard plastered – the plumber's.
Gone to sleep with a funnel in their mouth.”


Callus, just take care. Callus, just take care. Just
waiting for the diagnostics to complete.”

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