Sunday, December 9, 2012


In the Belgian Congo, Tintin thought maybe the primitive skateboard the locals put under the turtle was supposed to serve as the turtle's legs, mentally.
But there was nothing there except wooden turtle.

Maybe only darkness suffers from halitosis.
But there's nothing there except darkness.

A corset tied tightly around pharmaceutical vase water can fix the incontinence of somebody downwind. Make room for a lot of laughter, because a whole face is returning – make room for a face returning – a whole map of a face.
The language of eggshells articulated skintight in hubcap pottery.

The Crypt Keeper basically only rakes in what's left of the darkness.
In a car's headlights, darkness is a ruin of darkness. Darkness goes out with a glug of enema eyes in unambitious curdle.
There is restless saturation in any sluggish toilet paper, mental or inanimate. A face haemorrhoidally dim with beached chin.

100% defacement of a turd run over in traffic and/or gas bent saccharine.
The sudden loss of sound when a car radio is turned off is a shock and a distraction, sometimes.
Fossilized toilet paper is now the weird annoyer. Leathering back to leather on the fossil's toilet paper side.

You can't see the ninja because it's invisible. Talking to the ninja is like talking to a plank in the floor.
Stand very still and don't make a sound.

The natives imagine what Tintin must look like through electronic eyes.
100% chameleon-green, but flexible, responsive to color – a psychosomatic trampoline of circuit board alchemically haemorrhoidal on the robotic sock of weird electronics.

A dream is a balloon that bleaches instead of pops. Like a monster toppled, it becomes transparent. The look on the bleached haemorrhoid's face is of a face given back its normal pH; the look on its face of a face drinking its own spit.

On the notepad beside the telephone the haemorrhoid Tintin had doodled out of boredom with a sharpie haemorrhoided – out of boredom – into a daylight-impaling haemorrhoid.
I'm here,” Tintin wrote on the daylight-empty page, “in a primitive country, to study the vagaries of growing one's pocket calculator inward.”

He later awoke in the wall of the doodle.
The footprints he left on the beach were alkaline. 


Thursday, December 6, 2012


Using the creamy artifice of gravity, Gollum sits on the couch.
Which, through the same artifice, he has puked on. 
Deep-throat pastures recover the yeti's aura in forgotten old lung.

The pool attendant's tongue finds the same harmony in the farty skidmarks of CPR – flexible toast in the ensuing blotch-pattern; corpse-indentation loving it some hydrotherapy from the last magical driveby primate. A crunchy embolism soul-cleanses on the laser's crank.
The pool absorbs a dull clunking. A comet is steered by its own septum. Energizer bunny goo becomes airborne by its own useless weight.
How many levels of chlorine are we talking, grandmother-soaked?

My brow is dry and old. My brow's aura is keeping its goose feathers young.
Fat, open-hearted sinuses: lurking with how many levels of pool attendant?
Shouldn't the mouth I'd made space for in my brain – the only brain in my cluster of craniums – have eaten a wet electrode by now?

In their View Master, my tits enjoy the comforting blur of a carwash vaudeville.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012


Every moment in time is time spent in the loo, in an arc of exhaust fumes, healing milk and sea-partings.
From time to time, we all lose our odor.

To have the odor of a crowd is to be very complete. Romulan proverb.
But all my friends have lost their odor, to an aether buzzing with sea-partings.
I had unclogged a bomb with healing milk.

Aided in this vice by a mechanical hip, Moses was addicted to bowling.
Closet aether runs through the Porous Maid, softly, like drying glue.
At every second of every day, one kitten prunes.

And the air inside one closet turns stale with exhaust fumes running spongy against claustrophobia or a proximate nervous breakdown.
The muppet's bioluminescent deathshead divined from bath salts, the old man's walker freighted with 6th dimensional ore.

The hobo's arcing body odor, hung with personalized soak.
It is easier to catch diarrhea with gardening shears than to be likable. No wonder everybody is recapturing their bog; nobody knows how to like.

To be incomplete is to be very Moses. Density opens a drawer full of sea partings, a bra full of numbers, an old man's rectum full of birds.
Photoshopped from every direction like a sugar cube browning between Satan's thumb and forefinger, making air run off its tectonic plates in accidental numbers. But that's bowling for you.
The hive's buzzing is accidentally sexy, forging a little figurine of dried bog in cell phone language through lapses in Starbucks aether.

The hive's buzzing revealed in mechanical failure, i.e. a random smut of robotic spouting and untrammeled crook. That which accidentally glues the legs of spiders to tropical density is a tool.
The muppet loses its fittings in dissociative aether, in a harvesting of plank and a lunging of mannequin carcass. The mustache of an exploding head must try to keep its poise; in the mirror, the wavelength of Alfred E Neuman's exploding head had been assigned a fun-sized curl.

Although it aims ballistic contraceptives from a costume of simulated tropical gulch, the hobo's density can be raped.
This way you can measure the perfume of his density in numbers – if you're made of black sugar and weeping from a necrophiliac sock.

The beekeeper's mind forged a buzzing of accidental numbers that were accidentally sexy. She opened a drawer full of lapsed points in cereal aether discovered by eyes made of snaking milk.
During the ceremony, each participant sat next to the next participant at the adjoining table, in Starbucks.

Out of my way, Moses.
I need to use the loo.

The hobo's density has discovered purgatory's environmentally-friendly puddle.
As a seamless shadow of chins, his blood is invincible.
Satan has dropped the whole cockroach's eye into a joke mug.
Harvesting the graveyard's sea-parting of dried tectonic spidersnot with a single mustache.
In the mirror, the firefly practices her bioluminescent polyp.
In the mirror is a lifeless tectonic plate beneath the reflection of an areola.
A light object. “I'm now standing on an environmentally-friendly concrete curb.”
The mirror memorizes the reflection in its fibers. That's the firefly's ceremony. A sprinkling of nothing.

Monday, December 3, 2012


It's raining dark matter outside and the Christmas tree is lying in the bathtub, a gummy composite of meat's reflection.
Some people have a phobia of other people who have inhaled helium.
The Christmas tree is inhabited by jungle rubbish.

The Transformer tries to hold its NASCAR wang.
The chain of impulse behind the piss in the goat's beard eclipses whatever is behind the dreamy abyss in its lower jaw.
It's too much NERF for comfort.

I smell a blender. A dozen poor, destitute, homeless, dirty, hapless, deleted yawns in a blender, smeared.
Adamantium sits blissed-out in the kitchen sink, like the mumbling of an old man's mouth sheathing an electron.
NERF-cloaked, like a virus estranged for its singularity. Disinfectant bleeds a bunch of outlines of drone-algorithm; that quiet, unusual place; thinner and thinner.

My palm becomes thinner and thinner. A harsh people-carrier with empathy's joystick-operated drone-algorithm inseparable from its ripe-sauna singularity. Transformers simulate Alzheimer's deleted smears, Transformer feces staring back up from the toilet bowl with deleted eyes; waving.
Bringing his hand too close to his own face, the caveman's palm is cloaked.

With a spoon held to the cockroach's face, the Storm Trooper studies its mono-skeletal cockroach reflectivity.
Before embellishing the spoon with a cloak of brain fluids.

Bananas carry people better than any carrier of burdens.

In Starbucks, nothing haunts like nature's naturally cloaked cells.
They fuck shit up.
The difficulty of removing nature's naturally cloaked cells from coffee. Stone, apparently disconnected from the threat of a bunch of voids – Why can't you go back to the point where a black hole's nightmare talking head is play-doh-simulated?
Lying in the bath thinking about thunder: Thunder is an all or nothing type of ogre.

A gummy composite of phantom limb dark matter, with which the Christmas tree twinkles. Meat's quiet place, and the cells that sport meat's quiet place's spider-smell.
Something is moving very slowly in the blender. A prosthetic cell, smiling.
Every Hero has her Foil.
Dorothy Gale's foil's prosthetic tinfoil cell smiles perpetually. The oil climbing up the blender's sides is the oil trailed across a trailer park by the maggot samurai's mechanical hip.

Mud nevertheless pulls at the humanoid mud-wrestler's dentures. Which literally is like sneezing when you have a hole in your temple. His or her t-shirt is his or her most sensitive textile, understandably. Both smile: the mud has removed both t-shirt and humanoid's outlines.

Mud is an all or nothing type of ogre.
Father maggot, mother maggot, son maggot, daughter maggot – know ghetto aether.
In the backyard, a delusional butterfly. Delusional because it's new meat.
Like the unconscious swinging bulb in Agnes' nose after she shot herself in the temple.

Delusional because the bulb has no maker.
And new.

Sunday, December 2, 2012


Omission occurs very transparently. A bulging magnetism hugs e.g. the memory of my appendix.
There is such a thing as a humane herpe. The omission of a humane herpe occurs with a beveled magnetism.

When I yank the ripcord left in the wound by the doctor after my appendectomy, all the wonder and drama of a hamburger's nocturnal emissions are reversed-engineered from a river's burning discomfort.
'Geology' and 'context' overshadows the stretched asshole with tiered goatse.

Walmart smarms itself against another Biblical infestation, a veritable superhero fighting God's crimes with his thyroid bulge.
I grab another handful of dry frog.

She flicks paranormal lint over her shoulder. It sounds like Glockenspiel when she blinks.

I want my disease to be a wandering, rubbed-off elephant instead of a double-sided adhesive stuntman.
My pimp once wore his leather clown cyborg hairstyle subepithelially.
Complaining later that it lacked any hidden features. He wanted the whole hairstyle not to be seen.
His next looked like a zombie's elbow obfuscating his mouth. The next was filled with patterns so dense, it looked like a cliff. The next hairstyle my pimp had kept absently tugging at my pimp's head. The next hairstyle was so symmetric, it created a low ominous droning.

I know that, at this point, it's a bit late to tell you this but: there is a version of the song 'Creep' that doesn't contain the word 'very'.
A hardcore pornographer cannot mimic softcore dengue. Something other than LEGO is responsible for the Crypt Keeper's skin condition.
Despite its general pissed-off gestalt, Karma has thus far not nuked my household pests.
The daily goings-on of my virus are conducive to the shit crust around its jaws. If it alleviates the burning in my virus' lips, who said you can't fight fire with shit?
Shit in a plastic bag burning on your doorstep is an obfuscated bomb.

You're lying in bed, on your side. You partner lies behind you. Now, do you think those were peanuts that just hit you behind the head?
Those were in fact nunchucks. Your lover goes to bed leaving courtesy behind. Her nocturnal discharges emerge from the afterlife in the form of bleeps.
But you: a courtesy hand in front of your mouth leaves tire profiles in your scrambled eggs.

The patient became so unreasonable during one of the sessions as to remind the psychologist of a bear in a tutu.
Inkblot as redoable thistle, unreal afterbirth as bat soap.
Its dripping has no ass. Upper lip upends giant kite.

The inkblot gaped from an oilcan.
The bear had a beach ball on its head.

In the garbage chute, we learned that I had been a 'difficult birth,' due to my cuddling unevenness before long, towards the exit, forming a haunting wetsuit.
I looked like an oilcan due to my erect penis and my gaping spherical oil spill, and therefore had to be removed with clamps.
Dirt melodramatically sucked onto my mother's folded hidden ogre like an annoying stuntman's cliff-dive nosebleed.

Saturday, December 1, 2012


The noose has crashed in 3-stage clot.
The negative collects in a headstink of mindfulness. Skeletal and tinny, television breaths reassemble in a valve's sexy gargle.

A difficult vegetable is usually segregated from fun. Such a vegetable is usually a clamshell. He or she quietly suffers some kind of outbreak – layers of Velociraptor wart descend the emphysemic silence.

An outbreak of pomegranate. The body of Christ in an alternate universe riddled yellow-toothed, a coin-operated doodle. Lactation ejecting the mole through an orbital scissoring. Neuroscience’s hazy burgling of faulty borders at the angle of an alien's toe.

As we all know, stuffed gum resurrects from gum.
A bouquet of gum resurrects from gum. Layers interacting in a stuffed resurrected bouquet of gum in brain-damage time-lapse.
Something missing fills up with noise, from such an exhaustively harvested resurrection.

I'm longing for the more casual and relaxed circuitry of the perpetual nuke, haunted upload twisting with brain-fat and low-hanging Knorr – whose ribs I will sort of climb into bed with.
We lean casually against the bubbling stove.

The suckers of an amnesiac hinge on a difficult vegetable, determining the amount and variety of her past and future.
A grave's ejaculations create the same ambiance as my Camry’s backward puffs. Their screams' toxicity producing an echo of positrons.

Like a bevy of corrupt cops, a bevy of corrupt thumbscrews tore down Bubble Boy’s lobe. He is now an otherworldly tripod which eats and farts atrophy.
Like a werewolf, the heel of an amputee leaps from the rabbit hole.

The hug of an emphesymic house spider triggers diffusion. Such zero connectivity is not segregated from fun.
A cyst receives revelations in 3 stages of clot. Disguised with laser. Brain-fusing between disaffecting tensions.
Having learned that nothing is tactile to Occam’s razor, alien invaders masturbate a diabetic’s lunch.

You don't want to be an unintelligible object. You don't want to be an unintelligible object positioned somewhere in the room while Sauron is watching the sitcom: his vigorous heartbeats all tend to bang on unintelligible objects.
Behind Audrey II’s lip, there's a warmth. Anatomical vase water ghosts in the craw of sand.
Acid reduced to pellets can't be licked out. They don't work. They can't be soaked in liquor. Can't be stuffed with negative.
This syndrome is stuffed with subjective feelings' meta presence.

I twist into the shape of a humanoid dog.
For a second, my chinos look like a portrait of chinos. Fake leaves blow around our junk's junkyard. Zero connectivity copies its arms from a plant. Xenomorphic snoutskin levels its cold vector at its own reflection in the astronaut's visor from a base of non-biodegradable dickcheese.
In our cunts, two brains shall dodder before the contraction's snoring methane.

With his low-hanging whiskers hovering above an energy drink, the hybrid coroner gives the best golden showers.
A corpse lies prone on the yellow brick road. A ghost commits its spirit to the bosom of the Coca-Cola evening shade, little bits of dirt trapped in its eye shadows' outer wax.

Search This Blog

There was an error in this gadget