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...

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