Sunday, July 29, 2012


Who can fuck up any honest depiction of a pretty girl
picking bones from a hot cooked fish with her fingers?
For instance the squelch you're hearing – is it actually from
the wooden propeller that's manifested itself in your awareness?
I smoke too much pot to be able to distinguish between the
squelch made by the palms of those gathered at the scene
of some crime or by a farm tractor given an industrial emetic.

For scientific purposes, Mothman lets his dust devolve into
mere mounds. And with me, the doctors almost sewed on
a complete different tail because my parents almost didn't pick
my tail because it was the runt of the litter.
Stage magicians replicate these events all the time, and at the end
reverse-shunt modeling glue through their invention.
Dark and evil forces almost bullied me out of having this
tail, now.

But I am not sufficiently thankful: I still wish I could form myself
into a monocle hovering above a flea's gaping butthole.
Endlessly, I know, that image would nurse a propensity for spitting
right through me. The damburst's vectors align and flies fumble in
the dark trying to find the hole – trying to nudge the gangrene
more dated. Suffusion as trademark aesthetic of a fungus. Rubber as
adaptation to alienation. Don't magneto up close. Ebola is not irresistible.

The truth is, the wholesome, excitable electromagnetism in
pawn shops lets a part of you paddle around, systematically.
You'd be surprised at the least convenient thing Julio Iglesias
ever mounted – that which doesn't fail to manifest is, he'd found,
as mantis-chested as daylight.

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