Tuesday, February 28, 2012


open-ended veins dab alcohol
around the galaxy, sporadic powder,
undoing its signature edges – prosthetics
like the forlorn jaw of a ghoul

Spock's hooded face
in the shadow is a birdhouse

perhaps everything is a machine
that's been big and unheard
for far too long – and it's
now loudly stealing molecules,
one greasy molecule
at a time, dissection of a jelly bean
presenting marine insides

hopping around on a suburban lawn,
the raven looks ill in its cloth,
what were once feathers
partially atomized by the stimulation
of a lunar pill

meth invented inflatable knurls,
toothpaste for your new beak,
adhesive skin, once popular in the
construction of UFOs

Monday, February 27, 2012


Chunks of hip foam on a bloody runway. In collaboration
with Hugo Boss, Hitler's Friday night vasectomy.
Sleep deprivation over the sex line: the helical phone
piously kinks the hollow illuminant. Vocal patterns
spoon. Tokyo, a little gaudy hospice on the curb of
Pluto. Thunder slug thunders, sticks inside the lamp shade.
The lavatory's gland. Thought-reading interspersed
throughout jell. A culling of so much logic, it no longer
fits. As stupid as laundered latex. Pondering the phone's
thread's inception. In the wall is a magnet, so powerful it sizzles.

Sunday, February 26, 2012


With the many tiny holes in my skull, I'm known on Street Fighter II
for my 'cranial sneezes.' Not even the kicks of the young
transsexual Asian nun with the swastikas
taped over his/her nipples – a fighter driven by
guilty pleasures, all oriented toward antisocial ends,
a very sneaky creature to whose puerile amusement
every setback of an opponent panders – hard lollipop
feet in white gym socks moving faster than the eye can see
and creating these small gross welts wherever they land,
are as deadly. One character looks like Jerry Springer
and throws these weird punches with a Lego
arm, which suddenly breaks apart in many
bricks that melt halfway to their target,
salty necrosis, throwing-stars of hairy chicken wing lace.


A very big baby whose character description in Wikipedia
is 'the Escape Artist' sits cooing and burbling in a milk crate;
fully employing its squid electronics, the baby complexly escapes.
I kill it forthwith with my encephalitic watering can.
For those unfamiliar with Street Fighter II, I invite
you to check out the Wiki entry for the ironically named
'Human Mortal'; it is the weakest character in the game
but because it's wearing a hazmat suit, it's only character on
Street Fighter II I can't defeat.

Friday, February 24, 2012


In order to avoid extinction sauropods manipulated their ersatz
bratwurst attachments with pneumatic tantra. The limbs could
fully embrace space. While dying, and while fucking, the beasts
sounded like car horns.

In the final moments of the Jurassic era, a cloud above their
heads had a yellow reddish rash through it and its pockets
slowly shed stale vase water and other combinations of yellow,
reddish sky-fluid.

The news anchors berating you these days, sauropod, all tend to be 10
feet tall; with their primitive hinge joints, they pull paper
across the desk leaving deep, farinaceous drag marks.
Our thirst for urban legends have turned away from you
and plunged itself into e.g. the mystery surrounding the origins of
Tom Hanks' ugly kids, even after the very casts from which
they'd been lifted had been discovered in his basement, and even
as our modern instruments will debunk the mystery further by
cracking the algorithm that drives the brats' abominable biomechanics,
that make them shuffle, gorge on hamburgers, and warble
incoherently into their armpits during sleep.

The new generation of sauropod is the common house lizard
sunbathing on a boom box outside my trailer. In a Polaroid
on my dining room table, a ghost can be seen arranging the
furniture of my trailer. Fearing the rumbling sounds sometimes
coming from the Polaroid, I will roboticize my kitchenette
and all its transformations will pertain to that special state of rest
found only in hot, delicious pudding. When agitated, however,
the robot kitchenette would spit beer and meat.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


a random deletion renders Taiwan flat
everywhere you look, hobos napping in crusty wrappers
everybody just wants to be sexily disjointed,
like the gimp god Oprah

but a bomb's anatomical tissue
makes a mess, Nintendo abstinence
reduces me to shavings –

wooden pegs preserved in rabbit barf,
thumb tacks littering hemoglobin
on the cutting board –

robot bone sweater tits,
amphibian penis down Warhol's iconic trash chute –

I am the friendly towel waving at you from the other
side of the dinner table, your thought
bubble can't be more explicit, and is also made
of rubber

Tuesday, February 21, 2012


rodent drips
song stuck in my head

candlelight transmits religion

mathematical mouth bacteria unguent Anti-Christ-swilled
a Grace Jones exoskeleton slumberously dry above a dunk tank

went on a drive-thru DNA replacement
engendered leather hairless anemic

cookies abortion
engrossing deep throat

soaked with baby seal menswear ranch silica,
trans-Happy Meal

a covered in warts fugue

Monday, February 20, 2012


jujitsu mind-control, 4 chops of surgical peyote lightning
on my geriatric cat, 1 speculum for all intents and purposes
wielded by carrion on itself – it's as grave as the atrocity

the cat had narrowly avoided fooling around
in the backyard hammock – why else would
his asshole look so funny?

a whoosh of life's 9 heartbreaking lawnmowers
already inflicted on him
a streak of silver baldness,

he kicks and farts in his sleep, meows like Jimmy
Hendrix or Bruce Lee,

voodoo mistaken (naively, by me, the other members of my family,
the maid, the dog) for a transfusion of synthetic noise
via his cerebral cortex into an inanimate dollop
of inglorious railroad poop

hauled in from miles away, in the dead
of night, and – still in the super-villain grip of sleep – affectionately
dropped into his litter box,

wished upon, kneeled meditatively in front of,
neon specks of enlightenment blooming across
his mindscape as the wooly fungus of the dollop's spirit
is consumed

Sunday, February 19, 2012


Blood zero isn't just a color, but a language, a little bit
like a yell, wrought in prolonged exposure to the
television set. Science, in distilling the blister,
has at last stumbled upon something perpetually
spooky. Though it's just another isolated district
that's emerged, this time, gawk: like your eyebrows are on Viagra.
Like you're staring at graffiti on the mirror.
Like you're in the middle of some sort of cinematic fusion,
at the movies. Then, faint: because you're at
our latest depression theme park gawking
at the love child of several discordant vortexes. On board
a tiny UFO cruising along streets of bones.
Scavenging through our factories (wouldn't take the
alien pilots long to discover an abandoned smelly vest,
to figure out extreme human behavior
in a twinge of Axe body spray. Free will:
the natural environment for mechanical parts. At home
in the cheesecake control center.) Wind-rust tilting
the animatronic bat. Canting … swerving … landing
and skidding like a peddle, once, twice – no,
FIVE OR SIX TIMES – in the park's bird feeder.

Friday, February 17, 2012


I, a consumptive elephant, cough diphthongs chain.
No broken links. Just heat. Although a hacksaw
levitates above the frost; it's indescribable.
One sees a turtle masticating lettuce on the ottoman.
You can paralyze its ambiguous smirk, with a trepan and
a pinky slid into the gray morass within. Morbid
roast; incontinence of suede. It's your brain, ocularly 
obtruding back.


the fruitfly's spinal cord ends in chunky scrotum crust.
like a common buzzer's radius pushing outward in
an explosion of dust. We are loud. Headhunters sidetracked
by moons, dangerously barbeque-prone. If you could
see a PET scan of our tastebuds, you'd see radioactive
pixels stacked into really cool afros, infinitely high and wide.
Stop talking in the movies. Its footprints are
Odd but otherwise the angel of death is normal.
We use his/her footprints as graves. They sprout
Hair. We shave them. The empty bucket by the
Priest's leg has dead eyes. After 5 mins the bucket
Is full of coarse black hair. Why does he stalk spirits
Around the graveyard with a can of sealant in his pocket?
sewers are also a component of the Force. Jedis hate veggies
and hate peeling their membranes. To us headhunters, the
vegetable Core is a little 'off-center.' The truth is pointless.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012


a microbe struggling on the pale blue LED lump
such is life,

one man's suffering is another
mouse's gums fitted with a hundred
electrical outlets


always [man and mouse both] still easily leading to violence –

as the kindly astronaut lifts and shows us what
lives underneath the soft martian plaque: LOOK HERE
all peanuts at one point or another switch souls,
all baptized in headphones, bum bum” –
that's why they're bald; and in this weather, heart attack windswept

my actual shit's jabbering with
Burger King chin soil”; you can't really
appreciate how I'm digging this

ritualistic ice cream scars,
Escher's ominous roller coaster designs,
they enjoy merely a secondary beauty



you'll be many fingers forever

not with the hideous, infected
makeup of large feet suicide-wielding an ax at
the local gym,

odorous; though very nice pollutants form
their own crown of butterflies

Monday, February 13, 2012


I want a foot rub in
the electric chair's pretty smog.
How about you, baby? You wanna see a
cross-section of my stump?

Cotton's gentleness on space-time.
One's home as a small area beneath the sky
crammed with deranged urban simulacra –
there's a tiny necropolis in the bathtub,
full of salts that really get under your skin...

Pipes twisted horrifically.
Like a model citizen, bringing your car to a halt
at the Tesla traffic bagel.

So much mud is thrown up the rear of the triangle,
a fragment of landscape,

an arcade totally dehydrated.
Jar Jar Binks' morning wood finding a home
as a sparking, crackling glitch swirling
at the bottom of a can.

Sunday, February 12, 2012


Although a selfishly bipedal human, a fish is now in the way of my foot.
It feels loose, but fruity, like a carrot toggled in cinnamon.
This headache should be and in fact is sitting cartoonishly
in the middle. Its monkey giggles aren't explained. A sort of secret.
For I am Tarzan, an old junkie churning phlegm with his jaw,
kept awake by its clicks and nervously flourishing a pencil torch
into the dark recesses of the jungle. These days, I wear coveralls,
daisy cluster sideburns and maintaining a diet that breaks my haircut,
really fucks it up, softens but also cramps sentience's sexy garbage bag,
tightens its garter belt in the refrigerator. Diesel tenderizes
my cereal blue. Barf's weak Smurf valence. The squished bug
behind my ear; because our friendship was starting to get sickening.

Saturday, February 11, 2012


You're a municipal object on which my thigh catches the instant kinky movement is attempted. Water on cancer. Tire tracks on a Pepsi can. Horizontal, mirror-smooth on the one side. Genetically engineered to stand there and express yourself like a road sign. Why don't you come out of hyperspace? Why don't you
make bumps and holes in toilet paper with your stilettos? Why don't you use voodoo to give my dog a severe case of bedhead? I love you, even though you're one of people, figures, shapes – one of the lawn chairs – adjusted to the picture with gum. Just another floatation. I'd like to find the ridiculous nucleus of the wet, white ball of crinkled newsprint, for it's a baby ghost. Which is cute. It's you; it's you in there seeming displeased with something. You wish that when your face expresses sincere anger, it would be comically contorted. Yes, it is, and your anger is totally out of context, and fellow gum-pasted creatures like you for it. Together we stand staring at an optical illusion of heaven. Is it safe to say that neurons hugged by sooty deposits have created it? The lights have come back on and I'm one of the lucky few to discover first hand the prehensility of the intermission clown's hair: grabbed over a distance of 16 meters, across 5 rows of seats. Detaching only when a voice says: “We're back! Ready for round 2!”

Friday, February 10, 2012


I cured this tree by tying its blind spots together.
The sun in the back demonstrated how glowsticks eat their young.
Treadling noodles, the new ballet. The new
anonymous game show contender. Head like failed basketball seed,
decapitated – lifting it over its own lip is a pain.
They can't, for instance, be emailed until they've germinated.
But it's like quantifying a woolly mammoth. Namely,
it's a mess. What used to be a flexible croissant contraception.
Waldo on a blind date gawking at his crotch's oatmeal magic,
craving intervention from a lobster. The restaurant incredibly
few, and he incredibly many.

Thursday, February 9, 2012


A contagion burbles in this hopeless strip club's candlelight –
troll semen on the carpet, or the sticky juice of Soviet satellites'
leaking, tinfoil diapers. Tampering with a spacecraft's bumper sticker
is addictive: until it looks like a fossil, but of the curio store variety,
hand-crafted, from so much wear, distance; wilted.

How many invertebrate fingers, stacked, smooth, served
in tasselled condoms, jaw-proof except to worm-hunters and/or
Blade Runners, have lunar McDonald's patrons dislocated?

How many llamas has Gary Busey, in Nazi uniform, a transparent,
geological marshmallow, his gait described in chiptune, chased
down pharmacy aisles?

Wednesday, February 8, 2012


foreskin ultrasounds look very hybrid sock-middle finger
catching fire, filthy thoughts'
neon cognitive brace;
cold love passing through wiggling gills

accept your fate, Satan: entombed, loud,
ugly, uncaring,
edible, why not?

went from treacle
in TV commercial
to folded more flat,
cavities in sound-deadening material
sick-spattered on sanatorium walls;

sleepwalking ghosts
appeared angled

Tuesday, February 7, 2012


While the rivers' stitches were coming apart,
and coal was losing its luster to some kind of
hungry fever, the Zulu found the dentist's tooth-broom
interface fun, as he did all other consumer electronics.
Pumpkin chest hair was the best at signaling a daily life
of hysteria phonetically. Rust generated mermaid temperatures.
They both used orange gristle.

In prehistoric unitards, we go to robots' funerals –
only the gnome priest is allowed to sport his mink coat.
We mourners are afforded a glimpse into a stereoscope:
we see automaton hearts beating in a mesh,
diseased-looking like a toad's death-roar, straining against a 3D
rash. Skin heated up in a noose. Algae
self-atomizing and thereby melting the glass
of the abandoned vending machines they choose
to fornicate in.

Out of how many bars has the now-teenaged Bart Simpson
been kicked because of his inappropriate leggings?

Monday, February 6, 2012


But some visual displays are hidden by the bikini.
An apparent flower in a balaclava!

We leave, because the sofa is looming – being a Transformer,
at one point in its metamorphosis it was just springs
and upholstery, a straight-jacketed spiral, like a fire extinguisher
running amok through a mall. Turbines for haunches. Annoying. 

It must,” she says, “at least on some level, be relaxing for a
Tourettes-afflicted ninja to deploy Play-Doh
instead of the usual throwing star.”

So we tried it out at my desk. It was a normal writing desk,
where instead of throwing stars we discovered moth fibers
damming up under the lamp. I placed my mug in it, to keep it level.
You thought you were looking at a regular espresso machine, eh eh.”

(EH? EH?)

I kept laughing even as she asked, to evade notice of the
pinball plasma of activity on my desk:

Do coasters regenerate? My dad was an alcoholic, right? And he went
through coasters like anything.”

Whatever process this would entail, I'm sure it would just
result in another giant fried egg.”


The sofa was behaving normally and we were sitting on it: it was
relaxing. “Isn't it weird how certain foodstuffs make you wipe
your ass with more than the usual haste?”

Sunday, February 5, 2012


Carrion has a shelf life, marked by a systematically
louder series of Wilhelm Screams. Upon final complete
expiration, it sounds like raisins sucked up by
a vacuum cleaner. What awe-inspiring music!
How forlorn yet clownishly upbeat! In death, you
begin to itch. All the molecules pause like fridge magnets –
meaning they're not quite dead!
And poking from your chest is a spider leg of
breath, testing its new roaming grounds...

I kept hallucinating this certain weird motion,
I kept imagining or hallucinating that it existed
secretly in every teaspoon. Or concavely: i.e. exquisitely shallow
surgical procedures on a lollipop. Giving off fumes.
Being marginally too close to each other, cracks
open and leak entrails everywhere.
People that work at abattoirs know this motion;
the French see its skid marks on guillotines.

In the corner of every doctor's waiting room is either a
bendy avant-garde artwork or a molecular
ball and stick model describing this boneless exit.

Friday, February 3, 2012


And now the sprinkler's constipated.
A sparrow walks, then bounces, then casts
the shadow of its tail across the lawn,
funny despite the butthole.

There's a plane: it's the muddy sky pushing
a travel pillow like a crucifix underpants floatation.
The blemish's exposed wires. That's not a normal
on switch, Scooby Doo.

If you moisturize it, a vuvuzela can produce
echolocation second only to Batman's.
If it's a bedpost, you'll lose consciousness.
Mired in what the villain, a gimp whose small plastic
fittings that held him to the floor had failed, putters
rather than flails around in.


every towel looks older than it is
I didn't realize this until I took ownership of a pair of hind legs
enzymes without craniums glance over their shoulders
toadstools perpetuated into the Ten Commandments' multiplex,
nipples intestinally, 3 children & stuff, and this new care about monsters
we all want them to be in us, their reflection rotted badly upon ingress,
with a hairless saber tooth epilating
the marquee of warts on the mystical latex

Wednesday, February 1, 2012


With a subterranean swell, the Super Bowl has released its biblical heartburn. In
the midst of this tiny orgy of Third Reich sneaker particles, someone's sleepy puppy has been re-animated. An ex-wrestler has plugged a sieve with his face, filling its windows with yellow nausea. Even though he's saying something, it's impossible to lipread what. Profuse sweating. His whole face now resembling a beached chin. Something sinister about the Transformer's friendliness to the left of me, dumping gears with the same slow lethargy as the handshake of the Sith Lord to the right of me. What will so many people think of my thoughts? Can't find a shred of tinfoil anywhere, so toilet paper will have to suffice as insulation for my beehive; with its interstellar radio text, and strategically pinned smiley faces, it is the most voluble, tittle-tattly telepathy machine in New Jersey – but otherwise a great depository for Kellogg's Corn Flakes.

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