Sunday, April 8, 2012

FUDGE

a valve hisses, intermingled
with something fluty, a spiraling no-sound,
infusing panic in
the wrist

always where there's evil,
muppets medically accordion
on their god-hand

screaming: “it feels like foreign meat hinge
on my face and peel from holes
like a ski-masked robber's nose!”

a cocktail umbrella
plummets awkwardly
down to Miss Piggy's
hooves...

the hand's horse-knees' sensitivity to stockings;
their heads covered in lipstick hives;

reading their scalps with internal fingers,
the hand feels deep underground
the presence of Elmo the janitor,
in love with his mind,
luring me like ancient
roadkill fudge in a vat”

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