Monday, June 11, 2012

GREEN TOAST


the smell causes a surgical mask to pile up tiny

the carcass, exploding,
gives things – an accurate use of release

onion ozone
and
garbage soda

nipple microbes (typical ward merchandise)
and
a symphony of
pouches

and a new meaning to the green effigy
hanging in an atheist's refrigerator; the big door before which
we all stand is so cruel, on the one hand, its ambiance reminiscent
of a vanity mirror, on the other,
insect-fucks blipping throughout the whole of
its garden, the body – decaying – an aphrodisiac sticking
toothpicks into insect abdomens

the chatter sounding like SMS rocks boxing 
their little megaphones shaping a closed environment;
an itch blows through the corpse

that's the start of the hobo's perfection
his hologram finds harmony in hanging off a city's building's branch
knows it's an accident waiting to happen

a river spilling its remains
into a shopping cart, uniformly,
adherence to
the safest treatment of a soul

self-automating
operator
in collection mode

reaches a kind of homogeneous toast, a possible beach,
a forecourt

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