Saturday, March 31, 2012


garbage on the dance floor, vulnerable 
a disco bleeding
fashioning a video game from an X-ray blob
a grottoed world 
your coffin spilling 
egg wind wound up
joining a dummy in my bed, scalpel dangling 
hairspray touching filth
slime conforms, 
feeling it has something to prove
parking a plastic bag 
ate something invisible
only this transplant will save the rat's floating brain
if stained yellow Y-fronts had superpowers,
they could fit bees in rectangles 
no side effects
beautiful sounds of a theremin as a fish approaches the line

Thursday, March 29, 2012


Scooping shrimp from his gaping wound, the organ donor notices how, like all
things making their first egress, they greedily lick the bathroom darkness. Time
heals some wounds; but a mere clumsy hand can interrupt time, and if you're in
a time machine, it will stall, the slowing vortices attempting one last time to wring
from its petrol tank the build-up of unusual sugar. The wound now sees Magic
Johnson looming above it with a plunger, God with his tool controlling the
universe's contractions. Since this is the exquisite, but expected effect of the
utility, the shrimp all get erections. If your eyes always sat on stalks, everything
you see would also bear the exact appearance, shape, and would happen to have
the same dimensions and slicked with the same amount of veneer as – indeed
would not even be a replica it basically is the ketchup-stained Formica-planes of –
a bowling alley ... Down which the Batmobile cruises and dropping from its rear,
and arrayed behind it in such a fashion as to severely concern the shrimp, in
nature highly superstitious creatures, are black anal beads. From all the ensuing
bug-gasms, the patient's blood chips, a process that gives off weird lens flare and
Magic Johnson attempts to catch it with the universal Toilet Plunger. From the
countless hours in hospital watching infomercials, fitness and yoga programs, all
hosted by Octo-Mom and guest-starred by her abominable children, the organ
donor's blood has learned to curdle, and then to miraculously turn into a human-
shaped smoothie. This is does now, for being hospitalized is good: you meet
famous (dead) people, you see monstrous aberrations on television, there's
always a game console wedged between your cheeks, distending your face into a
meter-wide grin, and as an invalid you get manicures every five minutes,
anything you do will get you laid, and deep in your ears are the imaginary sounds
of lawn sprinklers. All your fingers are pinkies. You're extraordinarily,
overwhelmingly fit.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


In which the astronaut had been hanged.
It looked organic under a microscope.
Space was that able to refine his mud.
Before it lost interest, gunned
him down from an airy black baby stroller –
his wardrobe a personification of
the staplegun's healing doom –
robotic holder bled his asshole,
retina buckled, the moon lost resonance.
The doll when provoked by candy was gross.
Necrosquirt.” A fart slurping through the widow.
NASA brought heaven down and fried it
in a saucepan. The astronaut took
one look at light-blue muscles in a jar;
it looked like Freddy Krueger sprained
his face. “His face is now shit.”
NASA screwed our finest radiators
to those goddamned rockets.

Monday, March 26, 2012


Issues the Borg grapple with:
empty margins, hugging,
walking in empty margins
but also hugging

Issues the Borg grapple with:
ubiquity, ubiquity as extension of SELF -
ubiquity as parlor trick
as pain, pain in the beauty of ubiquity
and fucking

Issues the Borg grapple with:
fucking, fucking's cosmetic benefits i.e.
fucking's cosmetic poke, plus
gadgetry, i.e. relief in reinforcement
it provides, and sandwiches and also fucking

Issues the Borg grapple with:
sandwiches, what to wear,
and cruelty, cruelty in non-wearables,
non-wearables at H&M, a wearable cylinder
for their inner gerbil,
but also bubbles

Issues the Borg grapple with:
gargling, gargling to produce comfort
and bubbles, and respiratory bubbles
and bubbles produced by dish-washing liquid
on dishes in general

Issues the Borg grapple with:
what's comfortable, what's comfort? a lot of comfort
in pissing on non-integratables
comfort, a dollop of implosion of ice-cream
of meaning, meaning, meaning in feeding in general
and in eating on meaningful dishes in general

Issues the Borg grapple with:
panic attacks, panic attacks
panic attacks that pass on phosphorescence
and die as a coned heap of salt
and saltiness, and talking, loving talking
but also loving talking on Skype!
in but not outside the margins, also bubbles

Sunday, March 25, 2012


Then creation stole her companion. Who'd been busy shaving.
Creation couldn't work its own fucking jaw – nor its captivating
number of appendages. Which could at once torture a puppy
and speak like a calculator. Some smoke vibrating
in empty insect rooms.

Creation of the broken ballet, from now on – enjoying the
same horrible freedom as, but less stable on their legs than,
the porn star's haunting jello implant. Perceivable pant screws;
walking down the street with all the kinks of a flatworm.

He put a doormat where his chin was, to cover up the ugliness.
He trimmed the hairs of the doormat. Cruelly, she told him:
Gardening the doormat leads to much
more coarseness than a good shave...”

She finds him less tempting but more mysterious since
that last accident, which removed his chin and half
of his earlobe, and made him talk in parables: warning in
a prophetic voice to be afraid of the toilet
that didn't flush. Of the drooling hamster head
disembodied more mysteriously, this time.

Chinese whispers more bouncily weave their
way from the Tesla telephone mouthpiece
to the blank keyhole earpiece. “Monk trimming his pubes”
was the original message but the one received
by the monster was “Diaries of the Taco's lost pube”.

Friday, March 23, 2012


in the used napkin, dimensions melt
the scars of Lazarus are of cork, and he
was raised as Katy Perry –
with proportioned splatter
the toilet's great hair discharge
rip in coma grows bigger and what escapes gets old pretty quickly
degenerates into elevator music
breath: a thoracic loss, coming in boxes on a conveyor belt
murdered in a pillow alien invasion –
capable of bunning very nicely
sandwich catheter; or crust shape-shifts into Bruce Lee
but I'll cut off your supply with a razor blade,
lobotomize your gargoyle
pee stain your lampshade”
he's itching from huffing Botox
he's crippling already-dead animals in a slaughterhouse with nunchucks
he's a rat causing the pussy to crackle
volume changed radio station altered – radio switched off

Wednesday, March 21, 2012


Placing it in cereal to give it extra buoyancy, I modified my bong
into a space station. Christmas tree car freshener hanging from
the foggy mirror. The higher we went, the more I understood the
mirror's act of reflecting: it was more a View Master than a
mirror, and functioned via ghosts or the ghosts of things slapped
onto a bed of fine, regular-spaced connections. I don't quite remember
when Wolverine decided to become a bus driver in order to feel up
old ladies in their ascent up the stairs – or when he retired as a narcissistic
cave-dweller simultaneously in love with his many penises hanging from
the ceiling of his cave and bemoaning their gimmicky ability
to grow back after slicing them in half with his blade fingers.
How does it feel when the blades come out, Wolverine?”
Boners owe a lot to the philosophy of regeneration. But no, you never
grow used to the hemorrhoid, space-insect egg feel
between your fingers, despite the strangely familiar consistency.”
I'm not quite sure at what point I walked in on Heidi Klum with
one hand massaging guano into her skin to rejuvenate and augment body odor,
her open pores alternately sucking air and polluting it with endoscopic
visions of colossal squid, with the other hand diddling a
Garbage Pail Kid whom I see hyperventilating on the blood-warm
concrete floor of his tiny bedroom and repeatedly self-decapitating
so as to expose a complex, disconcerting system of cartilage reminiscent
of a piranha mid-nose job. Architecturally, a slaughterhouse
draining bubonic milkshake. Decoratively, a birthmark's weird
color contrast when, after no longer being able to stand the room's
nightmarish twilight, I suddenly turn the light on. The frog skeleton
in the birthmark now disembodying, now fossilizing, now merely
rolling in happiness...

Tuesday, March 20, 2012


the compass on this thing is defective
why would shoppers even need to know where North is?
a nuclear zipper opens, with the sound of
a bus splitting in half

holding hands, we stand watching our grocery carts fight to the death
mangled steel, shattering groceries, stuff oozing
from the trolleys' mesh like Medusa's hair defecating

cool” “the last bottle of cardiac shampoo on the shelf”
thy poor hairy heart”
with such emotion they battle, with such fight”
valor and passion, hypothalamic backwards through space”

to me, they're doing it with such sterility – exactly as
you'd imagine shopping carts fighting might do
I miss the human behavior element in the kinked wire mesh
I keep my mouth shut about this:
it's exactly like talking with a closed mouth

Sunday, March 18, 2012


Burnt inside with a lighter, a Trojan eyeful of
tiny red ants, the mind's sockets suppurating
with its many little burglars.
Or wearing a similar-looking video game mask in
swollen/infected/infested anticipation of stitches.
Boundary between factory and the cow
with the human hands. Elastic,
fingertips eager to remain friends with everything they stick to forever,
burning; the allergy adores
grabbing, it is irrational and correlates with violence.
At the same time a sort of abortion – like Star Trek
cancelled after all the humanoid lifeforms
began looking terribly sick in unitards.

Burlesque giggling emitted/sounding like a moo, petrol-scented
masturbation, stabbing with
Lenin's trustworthy, segmented prosthesis.
None are allowed to stand in the transporter room
but its hundred miniature legs.

Friday, March 16, 2012


Recording this wild curdles the machine man's insides.
Robocop car sick, stone cold simmering rainbow
mud, time's shards' bereavement smell
folding a unique, disrespectful computer hue
along the alley where the neuron once went bowling.
It is now an archeological site. Only phantom memories,
weird, nasally funereal, pretty-woman sounds go
dancing here. Dead bodies' friendly recoil.
Fright night. Texas Chainsaw Massacre at one with
the saxophone of pure evil.
Surroundings contoured with Leatherface's brow ridge.
Writhing covering an electro prod's
fang tension, tucked under the ripped-off face,
wet basketball jersey soaking up the feel
like a zombie's mustache.
Insects scooping out the petri dish.
Slayer comprising the nerd's every subconscious
bodily function.

Thursday, March 15, 2012


warp my baseball cap pussy eating
adrenalin shot wiggly in proportion
lung pork stitch
foreshadows slippers, assed buildings
personality hologram
Asian earlobe mind-control
skateboard pterodactyl, magnet goo
climates diseased-looking
porn laboratory woven pneumatic
kinetic tide, flakes into grotesque amalgam
the discarded weasel abstracts
transformative emoticon, voluptuously

Wednesday, March 14, 2012


Gandalf's cooking is the most mesmerizing
dark shadows rumor in oil
the potted plant on the stove has the most hormones
switch its underpants for a shopping cart
a man presses the doorbell out of sheer empathy
a vacuum into which saliva seeps
pulling teeth with xmas lights, a portal
Hobbits on antidepressants know the joy of boring sleep
songs about CO2-emitting monsters
songs about the kung fu reflexes of the polio-stricken cashier
a spell that turns rigor mortis into wobbly porridge
all around Gollum's long-term exposure to Vegas, misery nibbles
a sand limo pulls up alongside, door swings open,
door falls off, driver crumbles

Tuesday, March 13, 2012


Crazy people talk to themselves. But so do intestinal
parasites: “Oh my. Oh my.
What a sexy delivery truck. How it comes roaring
round the corner. It really catches
the eye! Oh my...”

The pinworm's throat wrinkling from too many kilograms of suck,
too many kilograms collapsing. Such weight
marinates the Skittles passing under cold, reused condom skin.
Like tumbling into frigid laundry.

Actually, with their astonishing wings and twirling tails, dragons
in outrageous fantasy worlds are the allegory of choice for urban
clotheslines now fitfully, now metronomically suspending frozen clothes.

Apathy after kilograms. After kilograms.

Your special mermaid 'foot' just feels like it's standing in mist;
too many kilograms of mist and also,
there's plankton's misspent youth in your special mermaid shoe,
auto-asphyxiating in the rain trapped by your
special mermaid shoe. You're a black mermaid living
in a township, and your name is 'Precious.' But it means something

Meanwhile, in a lush, swampily appointed penthouse, the Swamp Thing
discovers euphoria in what appears to be
a shiny knoll. Why does the knoll appear so happy?
It has squelched all the way from the bathroom to the living room.
Will it eventually drift away on a flotilla of skin off my own latrine?

The damp-looking knoll evaporates, faintly rattling. Was I looking at it in an
intimidating fashion? Was it my demeanor? My blazing eyes?
My microwave face, atop a T-shirt which depicts what turns into a
Mongolian contortionist when I bend weirdly –

as if bitten by the same mosquito out of whose ribcage
my mother and father, that time it was in my room and
stole stuff with its proboscis, had savagely ripped the baby monitor,


Why don't you answer us? Why are you so quiet?”
my whole brain, in shared hunger with the mosquito,
feeling like a hot, light bulb-trapped “inner voice,” “inner weight”.

Saturday, March 10, 2012


in the parking lot outside, an angry, pitchforked mob
hunts a lone skinny fugitive mannequin
I saw the creation of my wig in a cartoon sweatshop:
hooks squeeze it on
half eaten off, a hamburger beside one of the sewing machines
scuttles away on its forelegs
here, dirty children will say that knitting body parts paralyzes

the only props in Baywatch, i.e. pairs of rusty
antennae worn by lifesavers in Wimbledon umpire chairs, aren't made here
the 'foristy' look of the show is due to the fact that the whole of it,
the booming, WWII sounds of sunbathers, the night settling over
the ocean itself, takes place in party fungus – except time – a person can
still enjoy too many hours of corrosive golf,
pussy buttfucks, and sleeping in one's dairy

what else shall feed the many mousetraps crackling around your
flat autopsy suitcase, in the very moebius vein of snail earlobe?


Rubbed dreams run out of stimuli.
The atmosphere waxes constipation, ear-to-ear.
My head lying on the breaking point
of an imitation kidney.

The cross-section of a Twinkie inspired my hearse –
astronomical separation, collapsing the pillow case,
distorting the moose. The mumbling, solitary rug.

Thursday, March 8, 2012


every song is on the B-side
spent cornflakes are reusable
people cry turds
in prisons, turds are cried quickly
people are garbage
no, really – they're garbage
contusions when garbage blossoms
fart-like tumors when garbage blossoms garbage
morals stomped on by a garbage teapot
teapot puffs – more black teapot smoke – more teapot mass
crime and death happening at a frequency at which a paint chip can cut a finger
fraud, failure, and really telling the plumber that when it has been raining, water
seems to collect somewhere in the dildos he'd cobbled together
and water rushes out and usually onto my feet
I run the bath in a frenetic state, mysteriously
on another planet
like the Sarlacc, his tendrils only calmed after swallowing a Coke can
ghost transmissions issued by thousand year-old bicycle parts
on another planet
the staff at all Pizza Huts poison the knobs on all pizzas
pizzas have knobs that can be tweaked
animated GIFs are dumb, and primarily depict grass cutters
sand cutely tumbles down the funnel gradients
towards where more sand is having some kind of nervous breakdown
fleeing, fleeing anything: it feels like fleeing a global outbreak of
microscopic metal clamps
looking smug in your trailer – but you're just one of the
thousands fleeing in their stupid trailers
you live on another planet
fleeing with a smug facial expression
reflecting on how unfair it is that conjoined T-bones or butterflies
enjoy a symmetry far superior to their human counterparts
how vaporizing a pigeon exacerbates the Darkness
how lest it breaks or snaps, Styrofoam cannot be 'unfurled'
unless by a weird, disturbing magic
the janitor standing in the middle of the basement,
at our school, stands there alone like that when no one's watching –
it's also magical, and on another planet

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


in a shallower medium, our collective free will pleats
cow head mega-swarm
grainy genes, but dragging an Oreo's smooth shadow
a personality's burst of tiles
finally: thought absence
abstract helmet, space reanimator in meat
dispenser of a battery of exits
exercise noodles' physical application
shark-nosed blipping underwater sensor
detects the leg of a woman
anarchism when my skirt's lifted over my head
gruesome mail falls out
on the nylon clock pivots the frog's sexy robotic arm
Pavlov's zombies
didn't like the cupcake's electrical shock
I watched them afterward rewarded with engulfment,
cube-sized, at the narcolepsy accelerator
thick fauna dry ass psycho-analysis conducts well in

Tuesday, March 6, 2012


Smoke unhinged, just a medical symptom,
through which the mad millions don't notice
the squeaky toy self-healing – an extempore
effigy they've each skewered with a match.

A priest nearby observes that it no longer “makes a
noise like a squeaky toy.” It sounds like a wind chime
that has sustained some kind of trauma. “No,”
comes a mocking voice. “It sounds like a nun masturbating.”

In the mirror an aged, senile Humpty Dumpty says:
I want a portal gun for my amazing corona of hair.”
Though such a device would facilitate clever shortcuts
in the hivemind, some quarters would stretch on
forever. Walled-off brick avenues. Amnesia
emphasizing non-electric brain-events. Spider crumb,
built from an accumulation of moonshine.

Micheal Myers puts constraints on his llama.
His llama is his bacon. The new complimentary
sauce is a pain killer. His bloodied victims regain consciousness,
always, via a gentle swab of a wet wipe.

You realize that if all your organs were
in slow motion, something fast is always gonna
interfere. With increased height off ground, Humpty Dumpty
looks more decadent, his chin more like balls.
His awful mastery of staircases. Time. Paranoia.
Picture him taking a big dump in a Tardis.

Sunday, March 4, 2012


Can't ignore the breath of fresh air, in
immersive forgetfulness. The temperature of
a hand glazes the tungsten wire in your dessert.
Heat from a Muppet. An eerie environmental glow.
Questioning your own sanity when, by looking at
the unwashed dishes with your X-ray eyes,
seeing a psychedelic vulture. Grim perceptions of
other worlds make one talk backwards, like
extraterrestrials. Getting laid worries geographical
formations of slices. Groans from
rearrangement of something multi-faceted.
A series of events triggers a hypochondriac's
fake fever; two hours spent in a traffic jam
instills a lifelong fear of his own forward-facing
furniture. He's been seen through the window by
neighbors perching darkly on the sofa's
back. It's more whimsical than certain domestic
recurrences: the hammer ambulating around in a
bathrobe looks merely comfortable.

Friday, March 2, 2012


Sorry about the shitty necromancy. But are you glad
you're alive again? You're undoubtedly feeling a little numb,
eager to have better quality of sensation. As for obsessing about home,
family, the old tree house overlooking the fence,
for now, you're capable of doing that with your tail only.
Thirsty? It's quite poetic to call your thirst 'colorful.'
It shows hopefulness – to allude to more variegated recesses of
the esophagus per drop of water. Horny?
Your junk's watts slobber ellipses like
dull tenement windows in earth, angry faces
peering out perfectly spaced. Angry?
I would be. Dyspepsia is weaker east of the stomach.
Anyway, you seem to be heading there, like a rill crawling up
out of a bog, slowly becoming a blur with its dimensions creased
in jolly interface.

Thursday, March 1, 2012


To the folks at the asylum, not even slow grass
looks like an afterthought. Unless a large object
crushes it. Pixar is a dented dispenser, about to throw
up. The dent causes jet propulsion. Every movement
is sped up by a nanosecond. After each frame is a subliminal
blank. Mars leaving a smear right in the eye line. Banal like
the shoulders of the Kool-Aid Man. The roots of the grass
surrounding the asylum wriggle for increased access;
finding most anything accessible, thus cutting into lawn chairs,
legs, drilling through the filmy layer above the water
of the fish pond. A bolt embedded in wax fruit.
Cannot be undone, like a baptism. A future event
that will mark. The ape's ear piercing is from the future.
The one is stuck in the other. A same sex marriage
translating into a blessing's strange noise.
The magistrate's forehead with thoughts happening
behind it in his prefrontal cortex sounds like an elevator.
The Walkman suits the sandwich. Levels stealing
each other's reflections. Passing static from one
level to the next. Wax fruit is real, perfect fruit reincarnated.
Cannot be undone.

Search This Blog