Friday, June 15, 2012


the monitor is still full of
unwanted data – Where's Waldo
in its glaucus depths?
I can only smell him,
his passive aggressiveness
still perpetuating the
smell of grass,

or is the monitor just full
of grass?

that's him talking to
the drug dealer, which
other than sitting
on park benches behind
enormous newspapers I
know he finds soothing...

I see the lone, striped,
bespectacled, behatted,
bearded, tentacled speck

neutral data can be
that inflammatory, knots in bones
and Ebola doodles goaded
out of flesh; nevertheless,
it all dissolves quickly upon a
bad landing

slayed like a slug,
UFO molestation
of a slug, rendered into
a great noirish, hand-shaped

the sort of veggie which when
landing from a great height
burps, and emits intricacies -
more than just a

the glassy run-off of
a TV ad, like
a sinister streak
in the mirror, computing
something somewhere behind
there: coordinates

that's where the planet is:
this planet, though [...] had been
almost too far to reach
and now I can't find
weed anywhere...

sleep eventually deposits its sadness
into the apparatus, the pillow
of sad sounds, vigorous FM hatched
by lower cement; falling

voices then suddenly promoted
by the room's hidden fan's
consistent swipe
at every bit of air

I'm still watching porn;
but have learned in the meantime that
the dino-dachshund has been fired
and now the mouse's
hairy balls are instead being
pimped out

the deer recycled
into my personal robot

welding the aneurysm
with the suck and putt
of a steady stream of bugs,
the Milky Way a modular monstrosity
now sagging a little,
in parts

Jesus sitting somewhere
up there on electric furniture
commonly used only
by the Borg

my sink flush with oblivion,
combined with a dangling spine;

Jesus blocking
the magic like a
villain translating impurity
into rapture

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