Wednesday, May 23, 2012

KUNG FU KICKS DON'T STINK


kung fu kicks don't stink

my spare innards'
rumbling's low, sideways tone

undercuts the tranquil evening sounds
of the weird paradise in the legs,
shitting themselves, sometimes, though

olfactory dye
at the bases of
each of Jackie Chan's
bum wipes, numb

embalming what's
still snapping

life bumping into fluids,
a headless lever
behind the pull on
what's still a
faceless chewing,
chopped off cavity

adult diapers
wielding a blank
slab of piss

in lieu of a plastic
bag to drain stimuli –
if Depends can even extract
muddy squirts from
a fucking shower head

exposed too long
to a demonic hollowness,
which can also deteriorate an earbud
around the earbud's
own internal spike

the universe growing itself a lawn,
a mossy pastoral cube;
keeps going inside God's
bloodstained raincoat;
beyond the embalmer's forceps

keeps its ill edge:
gelatinous sheets
with lobster seams

with a heart of
zombie pulp
beard-harvested

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