Sunday, July 1, 2012

FUCK CHESS


pulls slightly at string of faux laser
dry noise teapot-bestowed

4loko to make the pleasure
based on the horrible grains of
a burn victim
curdles bodycare through the skin
and when reaching the liver,
turns into delicious Fois Gras

another stint scheduled
on Mars, so as to get
behind its creaks ala Jonah,
who'd somehow entered a whale through
its protective strips

'ah,' he said. 'Walmart,' he said –
it had, he saw, in the meantime gestated
floorboards appropriate
for the travel of green scum

halloween so typically in the
mushroom's exhaust note,
until reduced to a can,
sometimes not obvious how,
staved off by everything it approaches,
nobody responding to its voice

fractions swim as one
for “shaking typically will not hold my plastics”
in a dying-away sound of
metallic coughing

you're my defibrillator” -
I've been assigned!

you're my crowbar” -
I've reappeared again!

puppets going on tick-over
when the jumper cables come off:
the sex show's luster suddenly resembling
an enigma eating, messily, in the fashion of
pieces in a boardgame closing in

the defibrillator leaves crumbs in bed;
the crowbar hypocritically wears a 'cushion'
across its neck for self-sealing
although is already scratching its pawn-shaped boil
for some fuck chess later

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