Saturday, September 1, 2012

UNTIL THE COTTON PEELS OUT

AIDS screws on Instagram.
Glands whore around a seahorse's ear.
Offer a cadaver the curviest environment, its bloating
will prove adaptable. Yet by now I'm sure
the human genome is quite constipated.

We need a new form of rocket science
to spawn a new form of ooze.
A few appendages cut off here and there
won't hurt, either. Starting, perhaps, with the
recurring horsehead on my butt.

I find dissection of a frog incredibly poignant.
Until the cotton peels out, and I feel
a little bit better...

A fax machine rests on the composite pancake shelf
of the human body, its pages evaporating raw in cycles.
A casket with no bottom is that beautiful place's
storm drain. Post nasal drip clunks loud
down the inner caverns of the porcelain figurine
and settles mouldering on a hidden microchip.

I only use robot bone marrow to do anything.
But it tends to accumulate folds, it tends to react to
certain harsh environmental transmissions by feeling all
garden-weedy. During breaks, one of the engineers
is given to painting his crossword puzzles silver.
Chemistry dismembers bonds until achieving a tacky sparkling.
Meth breaks down into gauze. Half-formed spines
crawl back into the sea. The more inconsistent
the jellyfish, the nauseouser.

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