Tuesday, June 5, 2012

THE HYENA WASHED OUT OF THE HOUSE


The hyena's eyes' glare
composting in their bottle caps.

Hyena waffles.

The chain in its hair appears diffuse.
The animal is a soft, domesticated animal.
It has a waterbed's soul's million
honeycomb puddles dog collared.

It's possible to drain the waterbed
by combing it with a comb. Such that
its schematics begin to
slowly dangle.

The hyena towed away
by this transfiguration.
Spilled out of the house
when the waterbed pops...

In a context preceded
by a context in which an arm
lay on the floor. The lady, who had
squeezed her unconscious
information's supports, its mundane
props. A staple of therapy
hardware. 
 
Xanax-perforated or on
the new version of
domestic surge: e.g. lasers?

The stairwell had collapsed.
Other things also need
to be pumped up again.
Made pretty.

If you're doing sorcery
with a box cutter,
give yourself more
photogenic gills.

Unlimited R.I.P. to those
dead around you. Unlimited
air, replicating death's lungs'
lips.

Breathing not like
spooning each
breath with
splinters.

With cramps
lending traction
to our prehensile ghetto-parts.

The butcher's torso
hinging on his dirty apron.

One rarely uses
the internal intergalactic
unconscious, other than by
circumventing it for fun –

magnets dropped into
tiny imperfections.

Cobbled together
from clockwork. The
sofa blossoming again.
Like salad transmitted into
sweatpants.

The gutters fixed.
The animal impounded.

The paradox of organs –
the rules of their union
hold up under the fiercest
scrutiny. Your, my, everyone's
tonsils and shit, bound by rules.

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