Thursday, August 30, 2012


The constellation seems to cling. Mouse embryos
stab each other in their Martian jelly sac,
superimposing pee stains over their mother's moon's
hip, a comparatively small space to get clean.
The sprinkling wastes itself. With odd new body posts
imitating her original form, Snookie will come back
to haunt us. A prefrontal blob gyrating in a spoon
so that you cannot possibly shut off your mind.
The mutant is just my mess. A sombrero refused
in the crypt's shifting. Two things could've happened
to the surviving mouse: it could've set itself on fire in its
earth-return. The killer robot's Heimlich maneuver could've
uncoiled it. It could've simply fizzled out on
the killer robot's hand towel. Little bastard, you
could've given us all a very exciting performance!
A surge of blimp beneath the leaves. When not overrun
rich with snorkeling, nudity is omission.
A large, large, pleasing, pleasing capsule.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012


When you touch the Cookie Monster,
it feels like touching a horse.
It's hard to keep a deathbed's resin
off any such lush blue surface.
One could've sworn the final husk was
a lab-grown basket, death dragging it
straight faced. His poop-trails of comet rust.
The rot swinging through a mesh and making
his mourners spotty. Defacing the walls
psychedelically. A gallstone on a tether
keeps misaligning with its profane inner
grime. Forever seeking what constitutes a
Tic Tac. You have lost your badass filaments.
One tonsil is arrested electronically; the
other is a pop-up smiley attached to
a pedal, pops up, shadow boxes its hazards.
In life, one is not as pleasant as two.
In an alternate dimension, the mite merely
sits there, exhausted. It is a celebrity, therefore jaded.
Star of a medical blooper reel in which the arthropod is
circumcised with a fork. There's a din in the
background, not laughter, but similar.
There was only one fire extinguisher that
Freud ever found cute, for the same
reason Professor Xavier, his head baldly displaced
in headphones, only psyches out black trannies.
A straight jacket's auto-feeding habits
spindling truth in leather. A square diaper.
Long-legged, suffering from the glare.

Sunday, August 26, 2012


I made you a mix tape. I was the axe murderer at the
open house who was talking too much; we briefly exchanged
glances. I was still preparing to be blown away by a miracle,
like the last time at that yard sale. Now I've resorted to
making mix tapes. Baby, to enjoy my mix tape you have
to use a cushion. And it requires sitting on your cushion and
staring. While absorbing the mix tape, stare. Copy its contents onto
your contents, softly: a feather recessed into the rough outline
of a dinosaur, looking into the middle distance. Before all the
blood cells are allowed to become willowy, the panorama's
undercurrent must first be slathered on with a stick. Diarrhea
separates from the burgeoning self-portrait, before landing back
in it again. A dishwasher's suction conceals as much as possible
what lies before it, like a monger of nothing. The latter ability is
important for enjoying my mix tape, though it steals from
the ability to talk normally. You can only talk when thumped
on the back with a palm. Those very distorted images behind
a leotard. A water balloon effecting the joy of a tiny muscle.
It shows how close we are, baby. How tight. Your smoothie,
with its look of PVC. My pivotal silicon, with its look of a
wrapper in that shirt. A Mexican wrestler. Who will
let themselves be as easily popped out of their holding joint?
An existential coffee mug mined until saturated, a giant head
boiling. Lay's Potato Chips crunched down to melting between
the thumbs of a demon wanking its hand flush with bile,
very bouncily.

Thursday, August 23, 2012


I confuse twilight and its rolling shadows
with the meaningless, hydraulic cramping of Post-its
curling yellow from age. When all else is dark, I bake bread
in HD. Still, audible within the calipers of the bread's look
of dry lips is a very typical American hysteria.
The strips of public neurons sweaty nasal spray
wiggles its bum crystalline on. Phonetically, the
hysteria's bleeping is difficult to understand.
The clock's absence of compression marks in gum
after using the latter to stop time.

Jean Claude Van Damme has a little scar on his knee,
a small scrape or square, broken off. Axis of a
generic mosaic. My bum is balanced unassisted on his face,
the side profile of which then gives a cut-off impression.
Invisible escalator rooted in punk eczema.
Santa meeting roads without numbers to houses.
All eerily modernized, flats no longer merely waiting,
but flexing. Mini golf played thrashing like a
Swiss Army Knife's temper tantrum. Scientists know
where to look to see this: billions of years ago, two minutes
before the Big Bang's scrap metal casually pooled.
The parabola Ayn Rand's pencil, wedged in bath salts,
died at the completion of.

Monday, August 20, 2012


With a superpower of old-growth its bite
felt fully clothed. Helium cleared the shark's
strands of dead-inside. And its claw
mushroomed. Well, you must have good taste
before you can perform surgery.
Entertainment is squeaky around a regular
appendectomy. We are all entertained around
a regular bug. Our hairstyles are all clamps. But
luckily our genes leave our skulls unaltered;
only as babies and as chocolate do skulls
usually make the perfect additive, raided
by terrorist groups; animated when close
together. Terrorists' terror of photosynthesis.
Of nature's purple nod. Rotten eggs flash
when changing hands. The goblin appears
so natural. Awakening with the impact of
entropy, which digs gruffly putting you aside.
When I casually put anything aside, it makes a
zapping. I want a regular bug. It's a risk to want.
I can so easily want the whites of an alien's
eyes squashed in a cave. Come, spindly earthquake.
Stop, horror movie about awkward rag doll-
hunting Tampax. Or go, up to you. Over there,
in which the supernatural is being so terse.
It's application evincing cough syrup on a
random steak. It forms a field. The most conducive
environment for aerobics-spigot interface.

Thursday, August 16, 2012


I either leave the miasma
a-flutter in my helmet
or I go down with the lamp's
network of grab dust, dropping

at times hazily –
but those little bones
mostly kiss linear
to avoid self-elimination

with a suture's squealing noise
riding freely back and forth on rails,
never turning or cross-hatching

despite my ambition, I was merely once the
anatomical grit's reversed, canned cell nebula,
that could be sprayed in various corners of rooms
as stick-on ooze –

the cluster-thumbs' produced waste:
the memories that formed darkly ahead of the waste,
falsely secure in relation to one another

my mom said she had gone to the prom in claymation sequences;
if she remembers correctly

my dad's exoskeleton kept tipping over all the time;
I believe that, I'm sure the memory is not false

they eventually found each
other in a heap of buzzing,
and then everything in the world
imbibed images, and shat images,
perfectly parallel to each other

such perfection cannot possibly be recalled,
even the blister they got in church at the wedding –
apparently, any swallow it did went along
guts skewed into a perfect parallelogram...

fuck, for all I know cattle in the Midwest
wore blood vessels as underwear, in labs electrodes
went black in monsters' budding wrinkles,
and all the gasses released here and there were prone to
caking, and those gasses that weren't thusly prone
deformed at relatively slight touch

I had already once
hacked the pavement in front of our house to cancel
pre-existing letters, had known care and love for the
letters I destroyed as a symptom, unavoidable and over-
powering, doing whatever it was this symptom did
without significant smearing

Monday, August 13, 2012


Clown tenderness plays its hives in two.
Around the dizziness, enough vents contract.
Ice cream's live, coarse fabric, behind which
hunches a tired radiator. A parallel universe
is a plethora of glitter huffed. A traveler
may get there by scalping a prawn faded.
Only to find that hoarding is purgation.
Before the oatmeal rolls outside from
a gloomy Nerf ball spending this Christmas
compacted. As shocking as straw found in
the T-1000. Perhaps, especially after this latter
disappointment, you wouldn't want X-ray eyes anymore.

Sunday, August 12, 2012


Days are short, move into a skull like
paper flapping in the wind.
Below an ear, from his pouch,
her own weather howls.
Radio stations start to jump
from one pouch to the other.
This gray sweeping of this nuking.
The phone cord would be
better if it was smooth.
His cortex's flex leaves spots on its own
stem when dry, looks a little cheap.
Her zebra thorax whittled from
the former plank of stem cells.
Dreams about boredom as
purveyors of something pruny.
Dross arising with a chattering.
The alchemist's snog's laser's faux
crumbs occluding jinglingly.
Vermin slithering wooden-eyed.
Stumbling when hungry. A
too upright primordial soup.
We notice how the wires hanging
out of it everywhere diminish over time.
That worm meat had made us
feel less alone. His silly keychain is
irreparable only after she
is widowed. With a visceral, melted
plastic sort of trailing-off beginning
the connection process.

Thursday, August 9, 2012


The structure that houses a wedgie
at times blocks an important view.
The beta version merely bites your tongue.
An MRI of Velcro looks more springy and seems
to apply to the tongues of all human beings.
The schnoz's hoovering never ends.
One person is lead to another by a swath of cab smell.
So, are they like-minded?
Have they found a platform with the
same amount of air bobbing on it?
Being square in appearance is mainly
what has muddled normal existence.
Stumpy Adonis. Contracting more of your pattern from his goiter.
A complete coronary exhibition is the big version of smaller bottles.
You can't drink the blood of reindeer when it keeps flaking off.


I am able to bludgeon a tetherball if I know exactly
where it's swinging or hanging. I am able to retrieve
peanut butter from a jar virtually without looking.

I have it good.

She doesn't have it good.

Her cactus houseplant is constantly putting out.
Its stalks are constantly dripping earwax, brooding.
In trying to get away from it, she has
already once hit her elbow on the ceiling fan.

Her apartment is really mean-looking.
Strange noises. A plumber visits her apartment
every day of the week. The water pipes in my apartment
are clement. My constantly pacing up and down
when I feel overjoyed and/or fortunate only pleases those
who live below me.

Her restless pacing shapes no other message
than 'Fuck you' to the people who live
below her and who understandably don't like
her pacing.

She's unlucky. Pervy house plant.
Non-understanding neighbors.
Ceiling fan.

She should replace her cactus with a potato.
See, this is why we should meet – I could give her
some of my luck and lifeskillz.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012


Time burns a match
longer than a match
would normally burn.

The oldest ones lean,
breathe, dampen, lose screws.

Once it had parachuted
like a proud waffle.
Darkly wide. A noise had
telescoped noisily,
forming a hole in my
shirt, a larger vivisection
for greater comfort.

The edges of that hole
had since crystallized.


The labyrinth stretches 9 minutes fast.
You can not remove the transparent clockwork
from its busy hair.

No live hound has ever sat here before.
A sort of Times Square but one that doesn't
consume what you tell it to. An indicator of flatness.
Windy worthless lights hang from paperhangers.

And yet you end up tracing a seaweed-like trajectory into the
holes of passing faces. The geometric palette of
any cognitive undertow. Heatwaves from the robotic
house plant's left brain.

Earth (i.e. dirt) is very easy to deploy (e.g. throw)
and, when stacked high, knock down.
Eliciting emotion.

Sunday, August 5, 2012


On the sides of our mobile home
my precious bug collection gets its stew on.
Looks like it might cause corrosion
as well as being unsightly. Wigged pinheads, etc.
Such an effect takes time to dissipate.
I so like the numbers that emerge from
everything's life cycle, although some
could be softer, some bits.
The enema ladders a Happy Meal.
Molds beard from turd death.
Medical waste necessitating the purchase
of a diaper that throws you to one side –
gives a numb leg!
Designing more from within its design
rolls my melt from a lock.
Especially on an electric chair, juddering.
A snowflake's fat-shadows need me.
A nightmare blocks my skin.
Talking about myself when talking about myself.
Never done that before. A slicker technology.
From the time of the release of the condom
to the time the lumps appear thereon.
Like a foreign body underneath my scalp,
burns alive. Never done that before either.
My suitcase's cannibalism restricted
by suddenly relaxing the stapler.

Friday, August 3, 2012


Full exposure is impossible. The tissue is eyeless.
A rubber gimp chewing off a mind. Its receptivity
spreading across the yard, gathering in the seals
around the window. Starting to drip in.
A plastic bag needs sincerely to gorge. You need
small hands to gargle. In the future, you will not like snow.
Any curse stems from heavier material. Some miracle mist
that impedes city sewers. Displacing the warp, as death
intermittently feels the urgent need to change.
Its cues are not carried over from the front
of the pitchfork to the rear. Hovering. Interstates transition
from luxurious stitching to orange peel.
Rust: that ancient precursor to the non-retractable pizza.
Ted Bundy appears offset. Death turns too close
on the same side of the road as that old armadillo. Both
know that, per whim, one can feel synchronized.
One can hover. Gargle. Gorge. Have small hands.
No eyes.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012


I bore no resemblance to a heap of bones
after my castration via jetpack-fail.
Airlifted on my kinetic hoof.
With like arachnid tubes swinging
tautly through gross lapses, like
a ponytail's metabolism retailing
the smell of used floss. Steal until I
become three reeds of light bending through
a speck on the display window; sound
unhealthy while leaving the planet; and look
like an anus, with like giggling larvae in situ
acting abashed. Your beak is your locator,
but suction cups are still advisable. Unquote.
Though some areas of the fantasy world
radiated by booger-oil cannot be climbed;
some areas vibrate as if dry. Bits of worried
fishbowl indicating the bathroom is occupied.
It's Vader becoming molecular for a few minutes
in there. The feeling he gets like it's all over,
everything. All over. Makes love to Edison's
delicious portable intensifier: a ray gun that
shoots plaque. There's an annoying pause as he exits
his flip-flops. And sound. Wind-up dispersal.
Why must disintegration be so manifold?

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