Friday, June 29, 2012

MY COMPUTER HAS A WORM


hard to undo its actually liking the fibers in my computer,
and it knows where it's going, as if it's been here before,
like a catheter turning just the right corner in the old IBM –
making having a chainsaw present desirable,
cutting the worm in half, two ends bolting blurry backwards,
a diet of bark around different honey touching. It likes rummaging
at a creepy volume, drilling, and singing, worm-
vaudeville in middle-of-the-night plasma,
in all modes after death mismatching its color to metal body
turning insides soft and leaving outsides hard,
modifying that old carrot into a leathery exoskeleton,
a subway padded until hitting the tougher head
bucket cartilages soon to become buoyant overflowing fluff
facial larvae compressing, sinuses knowing awkward clog,
as all things parasitic are propelled secretly from pockets
eggs dialed softly obliquely to eggs' own ingredients –
the Nerf ball's abstract as distinguishable from its teeth
in place of immediately transforming into the bright,
emotional arcade on a stick, for optimal disclosure wearing
on fingers the bacon light bulb, that causes an effect,
hooks a horror, fries a continuum, involves arbitrary
swarming of thought unique from supplying random access with
chopping up a dwarf, outside around among the toilet paper
refusing whatever would not load, having never known such hopelessness
yet so soft, the landing, it feels like passing from inside mice,
the worm making of its own body a noose to cancel its one
neurotransmitter pining in the comfortless unclear

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

IF TEDDY BEARS WERE SKINNY


see it in the shutters, with a bill gray
from catching the least moonrise
old, thrumming in Parkinson's glade
with a bit of zoology escaping to
fill bras' extra bit of space
her noise's influence on its bazaar
a mineral growing on the handle
Houdini's leash baked, an Oreo cramped
by the tumor watered
muzzle time and it would start
dry-humping the double helix
erecting the ultimate sexy Frankenpinup on the wall
smoking cigars adjacent to the pajamaed shark
Spider-Man still trying to counteract
the fizzing power-can left at JFK
he's a bit bouncy over harsh slunks
humanity fuels the papaya in me while
an era's nightsweat bakes
on the fender of the meat truck
giddily yumming in a ditch
this is the dark ventriloquy finally awakening
in Google's larynx a new sensation nods
peace crabbed Tupac skinny
for it was the teddy who was capped

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

EMERSON'S HANDKERCHIEF


In a diarrhea of fingerprints, teenagers of the Bible Belt text.
Quilting chromosomes from a mere stupid sentence
into sushi drift – a fatty smudge that blinds the metal detectors
hoary old men use to snoop for NASCAR wrecks in the marshes;
magnificent beasts dragged out on clotheslines.

Preceded by a hovering gramophone, guiding him with
insect prods to the local inn, the Sith stomps through town ...
by now the local pervert, notorious for his Power Point presentations
of motel skeletons hitting each other to pieces with a sledgehammer.
Morally an otherwise neutral topic; but the sound seeps through
the walls and seems to be attracted to peanut butter, becomes
one with it, and it doesn't rub folk right. Pond outtakes that
taught Emerson how to love his handkerchief – how to properly
use it after breathing ridges into his wax. Bog serum on your sandwich
after a scare like that, the new splatter that could've done a
pharmaceutical storefront whorly of funk.

He and Elmo shared a hairdryer, which bubbled mesmerizing
in the tub and whose blast exposed stickers on their faces.
Elmo noted how staring into a mirror was like
posing a tin upside-down; Emerson explained how to
carve black straw from a nun, her speaking thereby alternating
from a roar to a helium rustle; meanwhile a tiny yellow airplane
outside was spraying some bloodthirsty insect repellent –
turning everybody pale; the town's only Japanese inventor
was demonstrating his machine to a small crowd,
a computer that could do martial arts, its rural script
paving a fifty meter-long strip of dirt with one, subtle ankle.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

SEWER FILET


one of the rugs holds my haze, not yours
ragged and dense and high and flat and splayed,
anchored to the floor by a near-dead dog's
longballs bobbing in the room below

unsaid shoe beheading on
a different lawn, in the time it took
to die into a cusp

our community is taking away less
and less, lets the sewer age into its own filets;
socially incorporeal in the same particle
is the most squid for a jumpsuit
there's an odd little fire on the mines,
tungsten in terms of closet air
pelvic in its incorporation of a street;
I like that I sign luridly before glancing by,
I wanna try a council block irreversible in the nose

if runny fails, dumb will handle the pressure
the motion simultaneously stops the unidentified
object bouncing on the bed,
until about the point at which, later in the episode,
sort of mixing with it, the ceiling grants us
the full ebay version of a context

we're generally, after every episode,
' - did which of the perpetual motion machines
this time slip in bird shit?'

Saturday, June 23, 2012

KARDASHIAN YARD SALE


there's nothing wrong with
an Ephemerol baby training
its mental ice-pick on Mickey Mouse

watching him go ball-shaped,
fractures in his black drywall

spitting and slingshotting –

any amount of decay tucked around
hot beer-vacating nano-cannons
at the frequency of a broken Santa lamp
and a hoarder's psychedelic candle

there's nothing wrong with tearing your sheets
between your legs in front of a specific part of dinosaur 
the noisy wart not scary on something like a Kardashian
trying to build their own porno “chair scene”

imprinted on our ears e.g. the demonstrably
nasty tone of the yard sale rectum

a toggle for easier operation

REANIMATOR – ANOTHER MUTATION


rot coils
inappropriately
after so long
on a shelf

a cogged corpse
of wooden &mdashes
hanging, I rather think

flopping around
after reanimation;
certain pieces
must go back to
the jar

I farm where
others do funerals
they ought to
donate more!

my entertainment unit
used to be
a robot snake
in a milk crate

that's all

it frowned all the time
& became depressed
even while guiding
one's soldering iron
over its belly

it tried to show appreciation:
a sack listlessly
remodeling itself
like a grimace
grafted into a
towel

it has passed away
I'm still going on
the concept of heaven
and God: bending

Thursday, June 21, 2012

MY CAT'S SANDBOX, BROKEN


when I blink, said blink is offset toward the middle
making the blink look a bit misanthropic
I have accepted and embraced this phenomenon, as
I have my dementia, which is exactly there
where I rest my right knee
this might be related but it might not, but I'd also
begun to stroke my cat's sandbox – in time,
I'd broken its sandbox atmosphere
and plus into the bargain, the infinite broke,
in a gaggle of spasms on a tether
a sneeze pushed to the back of a windsock
a brawl in a bar, a layered, accumulative transvestite
I sat watching it and being part of the layers and
enjoying myself, feet clip-clopping on the floor's
absence of space, absence of floor, which was
littered with traffic info, still, neon green heads up display
for a true pilot of his horse-drawn spaceship

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

WHAT DARWIN WOULD THINK OF THE SIMS


contrary to the split in my cold
gallows delivered the honey hole
a lick excerpted from the legless middle-face
a structure buffeted by textures of corn field
shades come adrift in gore's own valve; 
everything in the crypt's layout drops 
I cut my finger whilst tapping on the gears of lunch inside my mouth, twice
floss lurching; what very thin backs they have
the phenomenon we want drain-dyed, hanging over
scarecrow shoulders because of X dosage
junkie, stay tuned with your cane
everything on the weather channel is your fault
quick, that tornado, catch it with your elbow
a person with junk breath knows this:
he's going to be selected out; isolation's projector
sticks a certain type of rain to the dirty ceiling, in chunks
the apple we make to Pacman nine parasites
instead of grope the walls to evade them
its portrait arises in hot grease, blaring from a
headless cardigan; the plastic on the inside is cheap
Darwin would be impressed by the “old-computer” falsehoods
twitching on the floor like doormats; he'd host every event on
the Sims while concomitantly, in his old man disguise, playing
the bus wanker

Monday, June 18, 2012

YOU CAN'T TASTE WITHOUT SWALLOWING


before the occult outhouse, your senses may topple
how much love exactly is rubbed in an avalanche of lice?
whose volume, in that event, is refreshing?
doesn't it sound as old as the constant clanging of a blackhead discharging?
you can't taste without swallowing 
before exhuming the demon, the water looks creepy
water couldn't be made to wring out the drowning
or the loose, damp spot above a stolen organ
get used to the plaster's involuntary reflexes
although it took place under suspicious circumstances,
since the organ replacement the marionette has been voted
the most loved person at the party, hiding its scar
underneath its rape cape
a critter grinning with small teeth the whole time at a party
it's assimilating, you just don't notice it

THE SANDMAN – ANOTHER MUTATION


The eye glued itself to a spoon. It felt as closed
as an anvil, yet when lightening struck the eye
its entrails were protected by Faraday's effect.
The spoon kicking up reflections; the brain rudely
photo bombing each of these reflections.
The brain in these violent, intrusive instances looked
like a car wash sponge in which a small tree was planted.
In the tree in the sponge a fish hook was hooked,
in the bark, ingrown, its entry point surrounded by gnarl.
The tree was meant to be pulled up out of the sponge
by this hook. A sacrifice.

The night sky outside the window behind the sponge
was silver. The stars weren't stars. Arguably the
solar system's twinkly braces marked a new stage in its
ongoing identity crisis. In another sense, it was
trying to disguise its hatred. Which was uncalled-for.
It need only have kicked us in our beds. An interstellar
tendon could've merely swiped across the sky like
a watermelon's peel. Changing the particles we slept on.
Debris suddenly rectifying themselves. Roadkill stirring
on a fluctuating crosswalk. Becoming something new
after spiraling. Multiple jujitsu.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

THE PHOTOCOPIER AT THE OFFICE WHERE I WORK


I was making photocopies at the photocopy
machine at the office where I work and
the fringe of an innocent bystander's hair
ended up getting photocopied.

Anything placed
in the photocopier's jaws
appears to be
given a blow job, even the side
of someone's head, even
a toenail. Even a person's privates.

Regardless of what's placed
inside. When something is placed
beneath the photocopier's lid, it is easy
to imagine the burgeoning simulacrum; 
but molten. It is easy to imagine the
photocopier sopping up soy sauce.

Magnetic hormones loosely orbit a central
tastebud. A mossy caduceus.
Antlers grown by a cybernetic tele-knoll,
extruding in larger quantities, renewable.
On paper, a wig manifests; its
thousand-year escape velocity is also fungal.

Colors boasting a lady's make-up's
magnificent hill hold. Tracks left in
direct sunlight.

The photocopier at the office
where I work is an upside-down, frizzy,
perhaps carbonated, lawnmower.
It can produce a severed piece of polystyrene.
A pavement, slightly acidified
by its urine, will be neatly
canned by this lawnmower.

It's not good for the ears.
It sounds a bit lecherous.
Like an hedonic hairdryer.
All my coworkers commiserate
in their varied ways, secretly at night,
when the halls are empty, with
the photocopier...

Other stuff falls out...
So this must have fallen out also,”
my coworkers are forever muttering,
sometimes holding up a VHS tape.
Something inside the VHS tape
slides from side to side.
These objects can accommodate egg yolk.
Often, the contents have been
harvested from rat poison. But they
are still environmentally friendly because you
can't open or break the objects.
Their surrounding enamel quietly and
confidently idles.

Friday, June 15, 2012

VEGETABLE BURP


the monitor is still full of
unwanted data – Where's Waldo
in its glaucus depths?
I can only smell him,
his passive aggressiveness
still perpetuating the
smell of grass,

or is the monitor just full
of grass?

that's him talking to
the drug dealer, which
other than sitting
on park benches behind
enormous newspapers I
know he finds soothing...

I see the lone, striped,
bespectacled, behatted,
bearded, tentacled speck

neutral data can be
that inflammatory, knots in bones
and Ebola doodles goaded
out of flesh; nevertheless,
it all dissolves quickly upon a
bad landing

slayed like a slug,
UFO molestation
of a slug, rendered into
a great noirish, hand-shaped
cactus

the sort of veggie which when
landing from a great height
burps, and emits intricacies -
more than just a
squelch

the glassy run-off of
a TV ad, like
a sinister streak
in the mirror, computing
something somewhere behind
there: coordinates

that's where the planet is:
this planet, though [...] had been
almost too far to reach
and now I can't find
weed anywhere...

sleep eventually deposits its sadness
into the apparatus, the pillow
of sad sounds, vigorous FM hatched
by lower cement; falling
voices

voices then suddenly promoted
by the room's hidden fan's
consistent swipe
at every bit of air

I'm still watching porn;
but have learned in the meantime that
the dino-dachshund has been fired
and now the mouse's
hairy balls are instead being
pimped out

the deer recycled
into my personal robot

welding the aneurysm
with the suck and putt
of a steady stream of bugs,
the Milky Way a modular monstrosity
now sagging a little,
in parts

Jesus sitting somewhere
up there on electric furniture
commonly used only
by the Borg

my sink flush with oblivion,
combined with a dangling spine;

Jesus blocking
the magic like a
villain translating impurity
into rapture

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

CLAMS!


for a moment there, slime gained sentience
bobbing up and down, stalking
eager faces on long necks

I've seen its application in soap operas
smiles initiating their dental outer layers

these are mere consumer products, hungering
e.g. in a hardware store: things the
rake finds appetizing

cloaking a jagged projection
with one's skin – can you see with it or merely smell?
is it a nose attached
to the back of the eyeball?

in all soap operas a character falls into a coma
contorted into a shape
with hips higher than knees
a rusty thimble coming loose
in the subject's coma, its head
up a fat locust, its head wrapped in a swarm –
part of the brain seems to be a murky blowtorch,
growling, lithium on some long wire
or other implement

the sides of the chemical do grip;
in the middle a spray always resides

a space-autopsy of our zeitgeist
slush on a book's floor
words engulfed in fertilizer
turning a page is like
gauze falling flat out of the sky

in soap operas, one learns about ways
to make your spores dazzle her;
drunk on linoleum sundaes
with chicken movements shaking one's restraints

Monday, June 11, 2012

GREEN TOAST


the smell causes a surgical mask to pile up tiny

the carcass, exploding,
gives things – an accurate use of release

onion ozone
and
garbage soda

nipple microbes (typical ward merchandise)
and
a symphony of
pouches

and a new meaning to the green effigy
hanging in an atheist's refrigerator; the big door before which
we all stand is so cruel, on the one hand, its ambiance reminiscent
of a vanity mirror, on the other,
insect-fucks blipping throughout the whole of
its garden, the body – decaying – an aphrodisiac sticking
toothpicks into insect abdomens

the chatter sounding like SMS rocks boxing 
their little megaphones shaping a closed environment;
an itch blows through the corpse

that's the start of the hobo's perfection
his hologram finds harmony in hanging off a city's building's branch
knows it's an accident waiting to happen

a river spilling its remains
into a shopping cart, uniformly,
adherence to
the safest treatment of a soul

self-automating
operator
in collection mode

reaches a kind of homogeneous toast, a possible beach,
a forecourt

Saturday, June 9, 2012

A CHICKEN IN MY FILING CABINET


What I think, usually, when looking at my filing cabinet,
is feed the machine

the near death state of its stored life
there must be a trick to its continuing glaze
what's it – milder rose hair?

there are slits in stars
the juice around my Betamax's crusting loops

of their lifespans, I think vibrating
with mitochondrial circulation
draped plankton scented
a glitch in the toy deep down
your mantis took years picking its way out of Walmart
but my chicken had literally time traveled out of there...
its butt's googly central eye
the rest of its body plus the antenna misinterpreted as
looking well-proportioned only on comic furniture

remember: the traumatic negative placebo
hunter raisins crawling up paper
this is the war's new face passing beyond the beyond
housing a sprocket's personality trait
breaking, and with a gesture holding shut the speed of light
Tron's biofuel hacked out of the old lady's backyard
one dollop of it sparged
over the heart

a spring can slow you down
it nests so frequently

Thursday, June 7, 2012

HAVE YOURSELF A WHALE OF AN AFTERNOON


its frozen wax had over a million years evolved into a scowl
other people did notice me chewing on the iceberg
it had almost drowned once, but then was quickly patched up
its cells only fit by giving them a heavy slam
aluminum embryo inside, whose dreams are boring
its dreams' vague, seamless glut
doddering in a phlegmy graveyard
in the night sky's frame things brightened up
auxiliary doom: one rare videotape of a comet's caroming
a comet can be quite eccentric - and deadly - if it doesn't get its 
trajectories exactly right
i.e. a stegosaurus following the yellow brick road;
its nose's smell poised above the unobtainable air-freshener
the stegosaurus's hard-to-reach neon collarbone gone stale w/
much of its color/odor squandered
you need an afternoon of like-minded whales
the nation needs Jerry Springer digging flea poop
out of one of those phallic pots:
the triangular downpour would wipe out his small audience
I have never sat in certain armchairs before
I have never been part of a live/undead studio audience
my spinning, leaking ego's logic needs looking at
its bubble is stuffed
a freak gerbil wheel of bladder lapse

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

THE HYENA WASHED OUT OF THE HOUSE


The hyena's eyes' glare
composting in their bottle caps.

Hyena waffles.

The chain in its hair appears diffuse.
The animal is a soft, domesticated animal.
It has a waterbed's soul's million
honeycomb puddles dog collared.

It's possible to drain the waterbed
by combing it with a comb. Such that
its schematics begin to
slowly dangle.

The hyena towed away
by this transfiguration.
Spilled out of the house
when the waterbed pops...

In a context preceded
by a context in which an arm
lay on the floor. The lady, who had
squeezed her unconscious
information's supports, its mundane
props. A staple of therapy
hardware. 
 
Xanax-perforated or on
the new version of
domestic surge: e.g. lasers?

The stairwell had collapsed.
Other things also need
to be pumped up again.
Made pretty.

If you're doing sorcery
with a box cutter,
give yourself more
photogenic gills.

Unlimited R.I.P. to those
dead around you. Unlimited
air, replicating death's lungs'
lips.

Breathing not like
spooning each
breath with
splinters.

With cramps
lending traction
to our prehensile ghetto-parts.

The butcher's torso
hinging on his dirty apron.

One rarely uses
the internal intergalactic
unconscious, other than by
circumventing it for fun –

magnets dropped into
tiny imperfections.

Cobbled together
from clockwork. The
sofa blossoming again.
Like salad transmitted into
sweatpants.

The gutters fixed.
The animal impounded.

The paradox of organs –
the rules of their union
hold up under the fiercest
scrutiny. Your, my, everyone's
tonsils and shit, bound by rules.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

METASTASIS


hips susceptible
to clustering

their gross harvest,
merely by pulling
up a chair

mistook oddment
for body part

the rubber
eraser
splits hair

in nasal three-way 
with Scooby-Doo
and the wearing of 
an ethereal helmet

gene sparkler
souvenir

when Gatorade's white
trash yin yang
heartburn
dispensers
and Eastern bloc
kiosk's douchenozzle overlapped

evacuation
via a cough
[having gone]
unnoticed

[too], the
shrink-raying of
a pigeon

Snow White's
peeling decals
amid
horrible pedicure
metastasis

my khakis'
nerve gas
sprinklers

i.e. occult livestock circus taint
washed in
production of
its own yellow chemical

calculation
of a legend:
anonymous
stool

my Segway
overreacts

to the roach it
feels like being
crushed under
something shaky

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