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.

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