Thursday, January 12, 2012

A TOASTER IN MORDOR

onion palm sweat had had
and had dropped an harmonica in the past:
did not feel it was being too heavy
on that metal

ill-considered, today the system's 'unholy'
is too low down

scientifically proven to mash jellyfish
but it becomes a barely
edible crochet, goop issued
from the permanent marker
in its vow to fuck it 
 
an anorexic's different texture,
as if taught hair removal in Sex Ed -
hypnotized to commit mass suicide

conjugal beef jerky leaning over
the shrink-wrapped diaper
thinking it's so pretty

but couldn't these onion
layers in my hands have
coaxed this monastery off and onto
Urban Outfitters' diabetic
rotating platform?

amputee horsepower fog machine-appended
to the stump, MacGyvered onto and from and into

sonar – several clicks on its remote required to
follow train tracks' nylon residue

after which we all hail the toaster that was inconsiderate to
angora in clothing but offered
a vent straight to Mordor

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