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.

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