Tuesday, June 19, 2012

WHAT DARWIN WOULD THINK OF THE SIMS


contrary to the split in my cold
gallows delivered the honey hole
a lick excerpted from the legless middle-face
a structure buffeted by textures of corn field
shades come adrift in gore's own valve; 
everything in the crypt's layout drops 
I cut my finger whilst tapping on the gears of lunch inside my mouth, twice
floss lurching; what very thin backs they have
the phenomenon we want drain-dyed, hanging over
scarecrow shoulders because of X dosage
junkie, stay tuned with your cane
everything on the weather channel is your fault
quick, that tornado, catch it with your elbow
a person with junk breath knows this:
he's going to be selected out; isolation's projector
sticks a certain type of rain to the dirty ceiling, in chunks
the apple we make to Pacman nine parasites
instead of grope the walls to evade them
its portrait arises in hot grease, blaring from a
headless cardigan; the plastic on the inside is cheap
Darwin would be impressed by the “old-computer” falsehoods
twitching on the floor like doormats; he'd host every event on
the Sims while concomitantly, in his old man disguise, playing
the bus wanker

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