Tuesday, September 4, 2012


From where it perches on the furniture's
most vertical parts, I radio-control
my gargoyle's armpit farts.
It nods unnaturally, tonguing itself
in one deluxe, chin free fugue.
Catatonia is simplicity. Custom magnets
foaming in knots. The prism of
gray matter wrung alkaline.
Asthma lathers the morbid esophagus's
complex, forked paths manually.
Almost like labia that can preserve or hide
a tricycle. Spitting made beautiful in
the rapture of filaments and in
the ignition of dragon propane.
A plush effigy is burned when railing
against the country's mainframe computer.
Even our town's reservoir
wears a feral chicken sweater.

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