Saturday, April 28, 2012

CHICKEN IN A CAN


unless because of the tension between
my computer mouse and
the common ambulance
its earlier anatomy removed with medical science
from the assembly line
to restore the former grass
and now I'm very excited about its geology;
as I always thought, the self-aware farmer is the
most realistic mechanical grime, his Dalek body type
completes the social awkwardness
and when braces are rendered obsolete
his nose-circuitry will be thrown into relief
waterproof the broken cave
like an elevator that includes an embrace
one's deepest tissue heartbroken in a can
Having Dissected The Inanimate To Complete A
Cellphone's Grisly Transformation; advertising's
inevitable fragmentation after ceasing to
relentlessly document the puppy's abduction,
culminating in an optical illusion of either
Culture, Our Companionship, or A Burning Space Shuttle

Thursday, April 26, 2012

WHAT REALLY CRAWLED OUT OF CHERNOBYL


cut evaporation
around trousers

if the ground
would crack
the
perfume inferno
ill-edged

normal spawn
in the photo
booth

pocked, greasy
interference
of the
death ray

technically this
genie is
self-sustaining,
aloof

spud du jour,
not accessible
while buffering

like smudged
lightning vertebrae
swinging
in time
to corpse
on monkey bars

UFO tears on strings;
my jar
parked adjacent
to my cum,

once a boarded
up fire hydrant
in Jurassic Park,
now an
unchained cripple,

loud

Chernobyl created
ESP to smuggle
bones crooked,
pruny, and then
theatrically feathered

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

HOW A GROUP OF DESPERATE PEOPLE ENDED UP LOOKING FOOLISH


The snack wakes up on the table. There is no plate beneath it.
The table cloth is recumbent, asleep still. The snack blends into bits of it.
Why does it feel so uncomfortable resurrecting?
Exiting from a vending machine feels like jugular buggering if you exit straight into someone's waiting open mouth. It almost happened, once.
I think the local plantation, at stem or perhaps root level, feels itself part of some sort of planetary groceries system. It is complacent, though. I would be scared.
The queue bent itself labyrinthine with need and haste, and couldn't find itself, got lost in itself, looked foolish. The donor's kidney was just a lump of detailed fat in the precise center of her body. Moreover, it was infected with a computer virus.
Barbra Streissand lyrics played backwards speak of children's kites that have flown so high and are now deteriorating in space like rotten bat wings.
Played forward they speak of a green scum, a murky fish eye, creeping across the ceiling of a sex shop seeming at once far and very near. Seeing common objects impales it, seeing dildos stimulates solar eclipses.
The couple was vulnerable to the real estate agent's fungal cologne. They would catch a cold every day in the apartment starting the moment the agent moved out of view, but never truly away.
Curious radiation at TSA checkpoints makes Ewoks look like cockroaches in excessive bling. Direct the tiles of your identity back into the correct squares after passing through, please.
In philosophy classes, they keep score – glaucus halogen numbers appearing on the blackboard with the names of students corresponding with the numbers. For centuries philosophy departments depended on this horrible system, and it curiously hasn't hurt anyone.
Neither has always talking to myself while spring cleaning. Though it's lead to my thoughts usually being completely scrambled once I stopped talking to myself.

Monday, April 23, 2012

CARCASS HEAVIER


The zombie's tragic accident with which detonator
its butthole gained a different arthritis high resolution,
narrowing the mall multiverse by a slaying terrible at bagels,
knots air, at random skeletons, rolled bald high onto the
dispersion of locations, less acceptable bubbles from
clubbing baby seals than from mere handling with human hands,
Soviet-style delving the abandoned wastes of rodent equality in
my fire-breathing mobile home, its burps nail flowers,
and that the prostitute with me is a Pokemon is not a factor,
a post-apocalyptic marionette, a carcass heavier from eating
the dead space before it, gymnastic cattle that can only be
decapitated impractically, in the adjoining kitchenette.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

HORSESHIT DIVINATION


I chose to have my mail-order pet reach me frozen,
Eluding one of life's terrifying special effects of
Everything, including eyelids, tails,
Skin, reaching me crawling,

An act itself inseparable from a bonus special effect:
Flies like distorting:
Pepper like dissolving:
Rubber like perforating:

Chernobyl bubble wrap with no
Interior or exterior, with no light or color but
With exactly the same volume as a room in Ikea,
An air of isolation encapsulating the
Muppet hologram found masturbating in there, the squarely facing
Head turned 180 degrees, what's basically a
Promo gimmick now scaring voyeurs directly behind it as the
Trashcan directly in front of it takes one in the eye.

What you shrimp will spill its putrid haze.
Wobbly stuff will kamikaze for awhile,
Sick pneumatic density embroidered, concealed in this
Life-like hotel sick with its density.

Beware of its disturbing divination:
I am tired of the shower” is Optimus Prime rusting in the shower with you:
A smell coming down the stairs:
Hamburger fringe's lasting effect on the nurse:
Horizons sutured:
The mall cop intricate and Victorian.

Friday, April 20, 2012

ROSEMARY'S BABY – ANOTHER MUTATION


Receptacle, help me,” said the baby. That's what it said to its cradle.
Screaming typed behind on an inflatable wave shape.
It looked like a form breaking out of a spreadsheet.
The scraping casually fizzed. A TV pulled from meat's
prolapse is a reason for salads. On a Ghost Ship,
the unintentional transition from a man working at
his desk to odorous sludge on his office chair, “some loose
ends, baby, I'm just really really relishing surrounding myself with.”
Surround yourself with going away – a means of being stored.
The coma's farawayness, which soon mounts further into a
Jenga coma of storing dropping and dripping blank centrifugal effluence.
All the faded languages in our Junk Mail would have themselves
eroded indoors on the ocean floor.” Transfusion bodily, from the
chair to the door as a combination of collecting bits of burn and
the imminent talon on the doorknob: maleficent nerves hacking away
at the heart of a paintball. The ocean tasty from corporate littering.
Look out over it: a canvas on which the painter couldn't have
better depicted hungry scrabbling rats motivating the movements
of an exotic robot dancer ... Also – if you look further, wider – a potato,
cracked by the spring inside a daemon.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

COUNTY FAIR

Old age and limited maneuverability yellows the floor under my lemonade stand in the cellar. As a child, some unexpected adjustment to the pivot under my Skylectric rendered its new perch on the edge of the track, facing the wall, the open door where the butcher stood, the trepan opening of the chimney, the bricked-up window, nerve-racking. It never fell. I reached past it falling. Still life, like my own - feathers fail the birth of a plastic knife. Meanwhile, the bong squares all my veins before the county fair's pearly gates.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

JERKING OFF IN TRAFFIC

a drink cart had fallen from the sky landing right in front of his car
he was sitting in traffic from fright his own hips scissored around the Discman in his lap
a gimp ghost in miniature came to mind the wet shimmering knurls of something wrapped in Latex always took up space in his brain in an emergency, beating his gray matter with its high pressure lean
he always touches himself squarely when something horrific happens it's like pulling a cord, but at the same time like feathers filling an air mattress
he'd miss this forbidden protector should a cop or his own severed arm in an accident ever disable this enjoyable, grossly animatronic waggle
it's a privilege, he has no illusions
fittingly, the Discman was playing Tina Turner's “Steamy Windows”
he sat up and stared at the drink cart; none of the drinks on the cart had fallen over
the oxygen mask he'd put on was too quiet he reached his portable vacuum cleaner under it, to get it going.
his lungs sniffled; other than that, still quiet

Monday, April 16, 2012

PUBIC PLANTS

This is a flaw. Touch it. It won't bite you if you're
human. Rollerblades are the brainchild of a horse.
Fucking horse. The complex transportation system
of one whole alien civilization has been
permanently handicapped and undermined and taken over
by wheeled tripods. At least, unlike traditional rollerblades, they don't
seize up in the wash and/or swallow your damp underwear.
The poor are the only ones who can't afford them since they're
too poor to buy gear that's expensive. The poor
have to hop to wherever they want to go.

Calling down atomic slime onto countless
office desks across the nation, the desperate prayers
of office workers replace the natural process of photosynthesis
in office plants. Sometimes wreaking havoc on the
common computer keyboard. But what the hell?
A cloud crab-walks across the glass hothouse boxer shorts
that house your weathered brain cock; the latter finds itself
groping its way through the rubber branches of a new,
waxy pubic constellation. So much for our prayers.

This is a chameleon. I invite you to touch it. It would
turn the color of your finger. See, it was ostracized
by its support group because the crayons
the group leader instructed the group to draw
dinosaurs and other daily traumas with broke when
the chameleon's incomprehensible fractals
dutifully set about mimicking the crayons' skin.
Our little buddy viciously killed the crayons, in fact.
In fact, I shouldn't really be asking you to touch it.

Jesus, is everything subject to deterioration and decay?

My mom told me that we inhabit some sort of weird,
brutal sitcom substratum. My mom was incredibly antisocial,
and embarrassed me in supermarkets. And she called ME
a flaw? A fuck-up? Hehehe, I forgot the only valuable lesson
she ever taught me. It was a good one. If I remember correctly,
it was pretty fucking good. But I don't remember correctly.
I find it sort of humorous in itself that I don't remember it anymore.
How about you?

Saturday, April 14, 2012

THE PLAGUE – ANOTHER MUTATION

It was the last time they saw each other,
resting the Red Indian scalpel where the taxi's organ
trailed low, a last kiss acting like peeled cancer knob crust
in a typical movie scene.

Under the shadow of my super-tail Uranus shrivels, Tonto.”
With shriveled anus I'm watching you
getting into the cab. Plagued is a special feeling,
and I'll be doing plenty of that soon. But for now, I
forgot to brush my teeth; last night's fried chicken
spongiforms in my beard, bugs that seem to transdimensionally
dogsick long in one simple, fellatial swallow; chaotically
withstanding the tubed symmetry of my gag reflex.

Tonto moves from the city to the countryside. There, he
expects to find windmills: their burps powering
paper planes, his Negroid nostrils reduced in skinny air
to teacups trapping rain in his sleep. Indeed, brand-new ligaments
will let him resemble himself in a vaguely tasteless,
stereotypical fashion – but at least he'll no longer be
some asshole's sidekick.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned plaguing – Lone Ranger's
aureola is still lingering in the back yard. And despite the effort
of insects to drag it away and schoolboys to fold
the carrion nipple in their pockets, the plaguing stays.

Friday, April 13, 2012

EXISTENTIAL OFFICE STATIONERY

After climbing all the way to the top,
the waterslide rejects the mummy.
And the mummy's all like:

My anatomy finds this ghetto affecting.”

Vermin turn inward
into themselves,
death's smiling
toothpaste-failure
smiling out, on.

A grave has parked here, boiling underneath.
Idling in the undertaker's drive-thru. A suspicious
banging coming from the trunk.
That DayGlo tinnitus heaven's
corpse-people regularly hear.

Oh boy, did the bug-eyed principal ever place
Interesting obstacles in Ferris Bueller's path:
Existential office stationery, many zigzags grating at
The ankles, askew. To our lazy eyes a mere comfortable web,
laser fog outside-in, around.

Live in, live in it, live in everywhere at the expense
of everywhere, live in me.
I've understood that rescuing is normal, not alienating.
The blood vessels that cover it all up.
At the expense of it all.

Right then a comet would gut the floorboards,
then fall over, malfunctioning. Bueller bolting upright
in bed; the prostitute would always isolate chunks
of him and whatever else doesn't belong in the room.
She doesn't pay the mummy any attention
until the mummy's all like:

You won't implode, man.
Go ahead –
harelip me three-dimensionally.
Fall in love, baby.”

Thursday, April 12, 2012

MR BURNS' PRIVATE JIG


The killer robot walks through Springfield
and hunches over something on the grass,
something which thereupon slithers away.
With a dental alloy so baroque, why would the
little snail still be so shy?

Imagine the tons of hunger that sucker,
that aperture from hell,”
can decompress.

Walk through Springfield with an internal zoom capability
working your pond-green killer robot visual grid,
and other things grab your interest.
It is pretty common to see a mosquito
casually gesture with its weaponized irritant:
i.e. a goddamn tire iron!

Charles Montgomery Plantagenet Schicklgruber Burns
faces the large window.
Into the camera, a radiation wedgie dissects dirtier
with its harmful spotty bacon
posterior climb.

His Chernobyl poltergeists
suffer manually, doing turbo Pilates
with a stranger strange hunger.
Lotus for electricity.

With his old-man's visage Bart Simpson reflects
how last year a succession of bugs, drawn
to the little lights, totally
soaked their Christmas tree.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

CAVEMAN BOWLCUT

green layers of cave
small brain dump
flexing his hook
carpet piss anxious to white noise
the display cans' sleepless axle
rest my town on the midnight edge
bomb movements
humanly artificial orgasm
barber shop soup-cut
sneeze afloat
surprising logical magic
lunch-swell figure
uncomfortably in
obscurity-sentience
pleasure principle post-orchestral

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

CHURCH IN A POWER PLANT

After too much glue, your morning toast is non-retractable.
Your leg lopsided in gypsum with sadistic constipation.
In the bathroom, you train your BB gun on the woolly mammoth.

Singing:

Sweets in jars paradizing all power plants /
a new church worms can adorn!”

And maybe on opening day / a dead squirrel can do a striptease!”

It's difficult to get through the day because of the
stepladder's interchangeable rungs; every stranger's language
lends strings to the carnivorous marionette.
It would be pleasant to fuck everything while remaining
invisible. Egg carton kept the Predator invisible while it
was fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger. Egg on toast
on glue, on your scorch.

It would be really great to adapt more smoothly.
Swamp Thing's driftwood appendix moonlit as a flute.
His complex slimy movable parts distracted a group of
Boy Scouts. Well, using this same principle, and borrowing
a little from Jane Fonda's advice to her congregation –
You don't have to be afraid of everything” - I'm going
to go out and do a little distracting of my own, starting
with putting on my fur coat and flashing impressionable 
upstarts at the local Vegan coffee shop.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

JERSEY SHORE - ANOTHER MUTATION

the cast of Jersey Shore
puts their cock on a transparent pin
in the kitchen sink

it characteristically bobbles around;
until the pin multiplies into a general oily 'surface,'
the cock feels trapped by no-vision

when the oil starts shaking away from its direction,
the cock crawls around everywhere
a hairbrush in pursuit –
smearing a whole floor...

FUDGE

a valve hisses, intermingled
with something fluty, a spiraling no-sound,
infusing panic in
the wrist

always where there's evil,
muppets medically accordion
on their god-hand

screaming: “it feels like foreign meat hinge
on my face and peel from holes
like a ski-masked robber's nose!”

a cocktail umbrella
plummets awkwardly
down to Miss Piggy's
hooves...

the hand's horse-knees' sensitivity to stockings;
their heads covered in lipstick hives;

reading their scalps with internal fingers,
the hand feels deep underground
the presence of Elmo the janitor,
in love with his mind,
luring me like ancient
roadkill fudge in a vat”

Friday, April 6, 2012

MANSON'S 4 BAD FINGERS

I always wanted to be a professional bumper-car driver.
One luxury only afforded professional bumper-car drivers
is this new toilet seat jelly any humanoid form
in a shitting demeanor can be comfortably positioned shitting
and relaxing on, until falling asleep.
You even get special migraines as a bumper-car driver, relieved
by playing Pong on your iPhone until the pungent smell of mothballs
makes your migraine seem resistant to its own mass.

You know when soap opera writers seem to run out of ideas?
I always wanted to insinuate myself into that point in
a soap opera where the show climaxes in a series of “dream reversals”:
where she gets the handsome unshaven dimpled chin ...
and he just gets the free midget in a basket.
And meanwhile the tits of all the nubile boys and girls in P.E.
wither into wind chimes...

The architecture of my childhood insomnia was a loud tomb.
I loved the Daleks selling adult diapers on the Home Purchasing Network.
I tried to read but no book ever seemed operational,
as if it were broken. Charles Manson only read books typed
on the very tough cloth of the id itself. Charles Manson never spawned
other versions of himself because his semen traveled in his thumb.
He died a lonely old man on a chair in the waiting room of a clinic.
I read about things he did with his 4 remaining fingers. Unspeakable
things. So bad were they, they even gave him food poisoning!
Both his 4 fingers and the stick of celery they were clutching
were subsequently rinsed in the clinic's holy fumes.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

SPACE HOBO

its hair's laser array since my toy got rabies
stress blowing possibly pointy
lasers any trauma anthropomorphic, eight-legged
stars wheeze too big lipped
PEZ-faced, recycled any cardboard anthropomorphic
as our cars get trampled by wiggly tyrannosaur advertising
jar glowing corpse nursed many-tentacled
missing in the spectrum 2 inches above Hong Kong
a passing cardboard/newspaper augmented capsule:
so now the cosmos reeks of hobo
preserve primate until separated from condom
scissor exorcist, dialed after accidentally
jamming your image in photovoltaic pork

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

PANCAKE SOUND SPORES

imagination in part terrestrial,
dirty, clinging to but
released bit by bit
along with the grainy hum
of the sonic
pancake

ill of
burial in its dust's
circulatory skin

dizzying fingerprint
dials its
algorithm

lacrosse fate:
apparent
on your tombstone

I'm so relaxed right now
I think I'm -

it's so complete I
think I'm –

two large demon-possessed buttocks wrestling a small camping chair!

over phone sex,
tracking the passage of the old tranny's heavy cold
across a desert-like gap in our conversation

DIED AND WEPT WHEN I RECEIVED THE BILL

worth the regal
vocabulary of what virus,
snot-spoken crying?

approaching a tornado,
approaching a bridge,
approaching a young girl,
approaching a cow,
approaching an electric fence,
[climbing through the electric fence]
approaching a cliff,
approaching a lot of other shit,
enjoying suicide's hot slick maneuverability...

employing a friendly old oven mitt
as an alternative
to narcissism – you don't
exist

not wearing it
waving to someone
you cease to exist!

not wearing it
groping someone
you cease to exist!

now taxidermied so slowly,
dying, hurtful,
dying inside, a taxidermied abortion

coming out only
to punch a mime, a
cliff, an electric fence,
a young girl, a cow,
a Burger King sign,
a Burger King burger,

with a hand that deposits
sound and dust
on everything it punches

Sunday, April 1, 2012

FREUD ON MEAT

Freud's idea of slapstick is taking the root out of an umbrella and dipping it in drain water, comical, palsied gesturing until he's tired, sweater awry, eyes
plexiglass + frenzied giggling subsequently fogging up all over them,
disgusting

DOCTOR TO PATIENT -
unravel hazardously, or whatever else you
find pertinent to the Alien Rotation

subconscious joke chokes,
respirator offering one bright-turning-fusty
atmospheric detail

How does he think the shoelace got in the incinerator?
He's wrong – it's not nearly as profound as that –
clumsiness reconstituted as the temporal dragging; blue
current jumping across patient's braces, them plumbing patient's own
tongue, dry-mouthed meat hours later poly-crumbed slaughterhouse sexy

He knows no complex object that didn't over time degenerate into simple marsh
diffusion of scurvy-nails, performing every millionth, horrible circus trick fatally
preventing indignity: for the stuck, ghost-tiny synapse, either goaded or tamed,
mission impossible II

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