Wednesday, August 1, 2012

CASTRATION BLUES


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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