Tuesday, July 31, 2012

THE SHEET


The sheet marks by contact with other areas of the same sheet.
It is metamorphic not because it is sensitive or marks easily;
it just has that kind of peculiar irreversible elasticity.
It can be rolled into soulless barrels of cattle.
It can rear up at passing ankles in the anatomically correct guise
of Garfield. Or a battle mech.
I am highly suspicious of it.
The sheet crystallizes when I pour Kool-Aid over it, the latter
slaloming through cartilaginous termite mounds sprouting up all over.
The sheet has begun to talk to itself. Muttering something about being hungry.
I give it a burger. I hold the burger in my hand a while.
I am so aware of the sheet's focus on the burger. If I were to stretch
the sheet and bring a scalpel to it, would it noisily ricochet
against my hand? I turn my head and follow its gaze back to where
the sheet is identifying something other than a burger, something
devoid of movement, even in my shaking hand. But it is a burger.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

FORENSIC YARDWORK


Who can fuck up any honest depiction of a pretty girl
picking bones from a hot cooked fish with her fingers?
For instance the squelch you're hearing – is it actually from
the wooden propeller that's manifested itself in your awareness?
I smoke too much pot to be able to distinguish between the
squelch made by the palms of those gathered at the scene
of some crime or by a farm tractor given an industrial emetic.

For scientific purposes, Mothman lets his dust devolve into
mere mounds. And with me, the doctors almost sewed on
a complete different tail because my parents almost didn't pick
my tail because it was the runt of the litter.
Stage magicians replicate these events all the time, and at the end
reverse-shunt modeling glue through their invention.
Dark and evil forces almost bullied me out of having this
tail, now.

But I am not sufficiently thankful: I still wish I could form myself
into a monocle hovering above a flea's gaping butthole.
Endlessly, I know, that image would nurse a propensity for spitting
right through me. The damburst's vectors align and flies fumble in
the dark trying to find the hole – trying to nudge the gangrene
more dated. Suffusion as trademark aesthetic of a fungus. Rubber as
adaptation to alienation. Don't magneto up close. Ebola is not irresistible.

The truth is, the wholesome, excitable electromagnetism in
pawn shops lets a part of you paddle around, systematically.
You'd be surprised at the least convenient thing Julio Iglesias
ever mounted – that which doesn't fail to manifest is, he'd found,
as mantis-chested as daylight.

Friday, July 27, 2012

SLOW WHEN DISTORTED

Tracing a steak's journey from the eject chair into
being something floral, that poses unbroken except
for a broken back.

The way everyone stays safely visored behind
anything deforming its colors back.
Or rotting its rat a membranous velor.

Just in the normal course of need, wheeze from
spitting too much radar. On the leaf so many
bloodsuckers forge from commonalities
they themselves are leathery to – to, when naked,
represent the ultimate ghetto of the
Grand Guignol tangible.

Dragons scrape behind the processes,
like chemo flitting through a lot of rare Santa beard,
haunting the instrument a narrow junkie's bum
is needed for. The culmination of kitsch
plastered corpses closer up, and callower than expected.

No rush at all, human head.
Now that the place has been caught distorted.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

WHITEOUT


Unlike most people, I actually like our local grocery store's
association with offal. Couldn't get the plague mobile
so my feet cured themselves on rakes. I also like
Bed and Breakfasts. I'll check with friends if double-sided
adhesive tape is similar in outline to how I make my bed.
DIY stands for reinforced spore, because we're creating.
Full rotation of the switch passes unexpectedly beyond
spastic lemon. Survival by going limp in your arms.
Quite antithetical to its usual, odd lotus. Before inception.
Before the pump added such a horrible style to yoga.
A relic of tie-dye medical bills goats into a lover's knot.
Cautionary slush: what a good shit functions as.
Neutral, then paranoid. Then promptly enfolding hell!
The hunter had fallen for a diorama of Bambis
reverse-engineered from chemical yawning,
like a supercomputer throwing up a motherfucking beach
from low grade tea optics. During this interlude, he
said, I shall excuse myself in the most offensive – but viable –
manner; I shall turn off the street lamp to uglify it and
everything in its path, every half or overdeveloped mosquitomoth
on its mind. Don't you like your local natural history museums
natural, son? I.e. unencumbered by the usual plasticity?
Then you'll love the Loch Ness monster as he's actually just
a 10 gallon tank, missing a cap. Are you disenchanted by your
local car wash? Who would you most readily obscure with
whiteout?

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

COTTONMOUTH (SPACE, PART II)


A gingerbread man zoomed past every half an hour on the
conveyor belt. The last one had sodomized the adjoining
10 yards of nothingness with slow urethral steam. Space/nothingness
replied: from the serrated trunks of black speech bubbles,
quasi-verbally, bulbs leaked. Space should rather be on board
a space station. There, there is real cottonmouth, for space
holds on to any hair and small particles. There one has absolute
control over scratching one's own ass. In space, farts become opium.
There, there is enjoyment of resistance to erosion. McDonald's loosens
surplus promotional material from formica. One limbo per egress.
Craw, instead of something wearable. Medical center chic.
The impersonal unopposed to the personal.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

NASA'S COLORING BOOKS


Weirdly, NASA's latest training program introduced coloring books
and found the three-toed paw of the chameleon underlying
each astronaut invariably transmits to the remaining corpus
the texture and color of “burnt-out bath salts.”

Astronauts appreciate the worst parts of (even the most
tragic) coloring books. The bubbling skin of a
toy action figure exposed to radiation
is colored in with the loving, doting peck
of perfection's chicken beak.

They treat each pencil as a bone saw.
They treat each line as a marking they'd
made themselves with a sharpie.

Space is toneless to an astronaut.
Anything that separates its pieces from
the center outward is indifferent to adhesion.

Does this strike you as a happy place?

Well, it is.

Ever heard the sound of an astronaut lost in space's
self-satisfied smacking of lips?

KING KONG – ANOTHER MUTATION


I find King Kong to be so great. The long rubber glove of
dawn inverts orange fingers all over the grass simply
when Kong moves out of the way of the weak, distant sun.

The whites of his eyes fragile against the lid's wink, clunky.
Old movie-prop yolk like Pringles breaking past the pupil,
i.e. a brown elephant rib in the middle of the glass eye
shaking off after-shadows gray-haired and diminishing
in the incoming stream.

Back at the studio's warehouse, they'd reclined the large disembodied
tongue in a trough of bacon fat. Live electrons came out of their hiding
places to visit it. So a movie prop tongue like the one used
in King Kong could be a true monstrosity: a taste-nest of thimbles
somehow given to expanding and contracting when touched,
mechanically. The tongue couldn't possibly think: “I am a reasonable
stone.”

Kong's roar supposedly always comes from a tape recorder
although I think it comes directly from the beast himself.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

THE HOBO'S LOAD


A sneaker extracted from dogshit
and placed on the pavement
beside it represents an important
'un-jamming,' i.e. an important transition from
being embedded in a mound of excrement to
the actual resulting (planned?) sneakerprint.
Contrariwise, from skeletal negatives spills
the unthinkable smoothie. I want
my girlfriend to be like that.
Silver vaporized shouldn't become his breath.
A fart, if utilized to make an impressive entrance
or to conclude a speech or to guide a courtship,
shouldn't be apt to disrupt the office,
home, park, museum, moon, sitcom,
the daily quotidian goings-on of Jurassic Park,
the bath, loft, Russian, egress. Bringing
your dirty dish abreast of my skull sensor
made it immediately emotional. The basketball
team thumbed the gymnasium floor tepid. Slurged.
To the floor, it was like being slathered over with sand.
Shadow-washed hands have their evil instinctively
on repeat-wring. Rabid heads farm the hobo's load.
Would it raise the yellow hairs on his arteries?
In the box of bacteria he keeps beside him, would gales form?
An electric wheelchair runs literally till there's no
floor anymore for it to run on.
I'm starting a general purpose cliff face.

MADHOUSE TV


The drapery deteriorates
exactly around the poltergeist.
The incarnation in situ.

Partial invisibility makes scariness;
scary, old-lettuce angstroms
reverse crawling
while nosing forward a little
make partial invisibility.

A cough happens in the crypt.
It has been itching
to do that.

The sound of rubber bands snapping
fills the corridors of the
madhouse at lights out.

Last night the monitors showed
a ghost; tonight, a gun store robbery
in time-lapse. On
the monitors,

many moon-sized craters
interlock. And fuck.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

APOCALYPTIC ALLEY CAT CHRIST


one hemisphere of the Big Bang came off
taking on the excretory arc of a bullet wound
and dogshit yellow pollen exploded in the nose
communities later forming via conduction of silicone
into another dimension, that of the dark side of a burning
building, where the apocalyptic alley cat christ
blinks its green eyes with drapes of sauna fuzz

there aren't really people in this community:
loops of fly paper jostling for position simulate I'm
not sure what body language or why
but most mornings there is usually a loud clunk
when my hologram is checking itself this way and activating
and in trying to say good morning it instead releases
smog from a Ziploc bag as a likeness of its voice,
slick and distant, more like an infomercial voice-over
explaining how narcissism holds our failures not
in the way dissection makes a piglet look alive,
and the neglect of grooming self or self's hologram
engenders a hard exterior cast

2 trillion zillion years later my hologram is still alive and trying to
make sense of this magazine in its lap and its airs of concentration
are gruesome, somehow, one hand holding something moving
towards it (i.e. moving towards the magazine's spine) and it's
as if the awareness of this movement and awareness of the hand's
contents – a generic office stapler – come from the hand itself and from
the stapler itself, a likeness of a voice saying in my hologram's head:
this stapler really needs to think or pause decorously a bit before feeding
as in where's this thing's manners

many gazillion years later, my hologram's corpse leaves a lot of waste
graveside and vultures of the future are useful in imparting to this waste
a lighter, albeit slightly drab tone, which reconfiguration and change of
general gestalt graveside of the waste is not as cute as e.g. my
hologram's unexpected volte face some trillion years previously
coming up from the basement with the proverbial hat in hand
begging my wife (my actual wife, not my wife's hologram) for a
headache pill as banging on pots and pans and other basement 
unwantables down there every night in an attempt to simulate the 
haunting of a poltergeist has inflicted on the hologram, i.e. on the 
hologram itself, what amounts to a pretty bad headache

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

TUNING FORK

down some lizard-way for adding wattage to the tableware, boosting time
in the broom closet a few surfacings north of some really, really rough dry cleaning, so I can show you my belly's equatorial vents to show you how it does its mumblings, with a tincture to stop wormsong clotting, umbilical hydraulics recommended to keep its snorts cosmetically stuck, for more bass, thenceforth tactfully putting off the trajectory of its abortion

meanwhile the slouching figure of your uncle interrupts the radio's evomition with onset scarecrow, which interruption's death/bird-underarm odor relates custom-made to every angle of the radio's respirator, a circus syndromatic imp caught in a fish net, your uncle's head burns, trying to move towards the radio's grille and crawl in to use the earth as ersatz bubble wrap, planet-induced lesions, the pauper's classic outer layer...

no long wave - can't listen to me cricket!”

meanwhile in the broom closet gears grow square in sturgeon fat chain-smoked
into just another familiar cycle of organs quaking in arousal's prolapsed bean, acting like the nurse would amputate its prehensile Martian sauce, the one so clearly built by its own aesthetics, unknown parts' curvature revisited, apart from the one I listen to most frequently with the fork of suspended animation

Monday, July 16, 2012

TRY TIDE


I'm one of the few microbes in the bathhouse whose underbite betrays intelligent introspection. I'm beginning to think that homicide cloys. It creeps all over you. When you try to shake it off it merely forms a raised edge, then settles again. Commences creeping again … Homicide is acrid. It is the splat that just does not blend in. It looks a little unused. Everything around it seems healthily used. You can tell when something is unused because of a black grain of sand sealed in. It stays the same age. A blowfish wanted to remain the same age and to that end ingested industrial fertilizer and now sports an off-color scrotal coxcomb. It had gained no extra powers. The little girl who served the soccer mom Tide from her lemonade stand did inadvertently impart a horrific power to the soccer mom, by giving the soccer mom Pink Eye, actually the Tide she ingested did, which she'd bought from the little girl, with which she's 'panning,' quite brawnily, not looking in the normal sense but sort of roving, the eye does, in its pink rim, and tearing objects free of their natural platforms when the Eye passes over them. It must close. Then open again. Waking is mending.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

HUMAN SHIELD


My mouth creatures an Oreo. The struggle of crumbs totally
soaked, to tiptoe out along horned, Predator-style
mandibular cantilevers while meeting my girlfriend's parents
for the very first time. In hindsight, after getting to
know them, I wouldn't have as luckily escaped mummification
in our conga line mid-fisting had I not inherited my grandma's
hydroelectric genitalia. You can see why rain is actually a
waste of water.

I wouldn't want to ever meet my doppelganger: imagine you're
a midget, you've got green skin and pointy ears
and walk with a cane and wear some ratty burlap coat
thing and speak backwards and work at the
movie theaters; imagine yourself meeting motherfucking Yoda, and
imagine you both comparing assholes and being generally freaked out
at the difference.

From the mountain bike's G-forces a nameless, unspeakable
evil turns cartilage sullen, like the way it looks, on
its bike, racing down alleys and hiding amongst trashcans
and as we're shooting at it, me and a bunch of other cops,
it's grabbing for the nearest clump of shit to utilize
as a human shield, and its claws grapple with discarded
lettuce and pick out a little pupa which the clawed evil entity
steals from the pupa's mother's loving embrace, with its claw,
and which it puts on its own back (the evil entity does) to act
as a human shield. Any - rather ductile and destructible –
wad of rubbery biology that can serve as a human shield which
blasted down, and which the more we shoot at it, looks more and
more like a dude on a couch, watching TV, in fact glazed in such
blight from watching TV all day as to actually more resemble a
lost meteorological figure.

I wish the shanty convenience store hadn't been remodeled
into a big, vain robot staring the whole time at
its own reflection in a metal detector, he with the
heart of a hedonistic personal computer,
decoder of typo-strings and fan mail diagrams,
cruncher of things – lathered sometimes into a
numberless froth – but maker of exact folds and creases
in the more well-worded fan letters.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

TERMITES


We dropped some shopping on the lawn.
We bent to pick it up. I put on some goggles...

[2 hours later]

I am back thanks to our lawn's twice-hourly regurgitation.
Kneecaps unrolled in the remaining green bloat.

'What happened to your goggles? What did you see?'
'Your brain, seeing what I have seen, would agglutinate with your goggles.'
'What did you see?'
'I saw the … I saw the termite queen sucking off your lollipop.'
'...'
'I saw the hornier and hoarier of the older termites slop around her.
I saw termite paralysis. I saw the termites waiting for the lollipop's
sherbet's requisite exudation.'
'That's disgusting.'
'It was a new queen. They were training her.'
'Poor thing.'
'Your lolly became detached form its stick.'
'That's what the lollies I like do, rather quickly, unfortunately.'

When something becomes detached it doesn't mean
that thing's going to become totally imperceptible in
the debutante termite's transparent new centrifuge.
The slurring would eventually grant a realization – 'they like me'.
Masticating the overhang opalescent. Girdling
dispelling smooth candled jangle.

I am still sitting on the lawn. My brains are still behind my goggles.
My dog would now approach me, happy.
When happy, my dog is dog-eared.
Ensconcing his head now
to thenceforth flap kindly
over my shoulder.

Hello, boy.
I was under the ground man but now I'm back.

Friday, July 13, 2012

WAR PARODY


Passing ships slow down a
shark's piss. A drafty concavity is
now where this sudden shyness
maces the shark in the so-so!

When giants fuck, it's like two
damp people amid the consortium
of fearsome limbs.

One always adjourns web-footed
and one's cigarette holder has an inbuilt
tremolo. Awesome smoke. Suave
snowshoe. Thud.

I'll build you a dinosaur theme
park in exchange for your minerals.

But World War II was a war.
Germane to our apprehension for the
moonlit realtor. World War II was
a parody of his property hard-on
dismembered down to a filigree.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

TOFU


I'm learning to play the organ and I'm sitting
next to our church organist and it's a funeral
and her headbanging is affecting and
though she stamps her feet like one would tousle a bear
the pedals remain unscathed and in the church organ's notes 
is a breathable cork snuffed by a yellow lip 
then released in an unclothing of yeast

I always suspect the intelligent plotting of a freak accident
today's drama: the mourners antiquating and
cup-rattling later in the anteroom and talking smack
about barber sticks and barber sidekicks
and death by razor!

today's news: the bullfrog pallbearer is a new father
and the priest's walkie-talkie computerizes his kisses stale
and the church organist is like a discrepant spoor on a trapeze
and those horrible surprises when you get tofu instead of antimatter

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

TECHNOLOGY OF TODAY


We believe our cistern has worked on its own renewal
over the years. It is callused purposely to look at.
At night, in the wee (hehe) hours, grimacing our condensation
bowlegged. Its infantry of cogs and pulleys plumbing brown
twilight further afield. You'd want the warmth and comfort
of silence, sectioned only by housecreak and bugpath,
but a few feet away on the bookcase – there also stands our
phonograph. Its whinny doles out a neural swearing of frostbites,
totally corrupting the chronology of our few remaining old cells.
Our joints are specialized for a weird, cruel fable.
My old wife and I think in the end our parts would form the
vividest parts of nature. Bullshit. Technology's parts would.
And then one morning it happened: our cistern together with our
phonograph ran out into the traffic, flailing-armed. There, they
found an ideal place, a place not short of enclosures dimly
puffing symbols of tar. The cistern's morning wood shamed into
moving like a toothless hare. Germinating only a lugging,
not really a producing, or a ceding. Technology of today.
The cyborg inbreeding of 'quaint' viper's shinbones with 'tasteful,
understated' gardening shears. They say 'spontaneous' killing
is 'oblivious' killing. So as one concoction our cistern and phonograph
barges into a supermarket, without looking left or right.
I am too old. I am very old. I prefer to whet my bowels' natural textiles
on reading the Guineas Book Of World Records, getting off on the
one particular record held by this hypochondriac young woman for
the most cheap accessories lodged between her toes in one beach stroll.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

RAP 1, 2 AND RAP 3


RAP 1

it is OK to sing or rap to your droid, but remember
to change their plastic sheeting twice a day; the
first time upon normal disintegration; the second time
after a wet dream – dumbass you shouldn't have sung
or rapped to your droid while it was sleeping...
cuddling up with it but avoiding the denser voids,
and sometimes allowing their ulcers to culminate into
bloated dissociation: the mug-morphing droids of
self-analizing puppies, mechanically squirming on
their own chins, it's just a robot puppy but goddamn –
it's still distracting to look where its ancient corrugations
are pointing, droids personalizing their filaments
like dovetails corrupted in the glare

will need to be returned to the shop or dumped in the basement
but without draining one habitat one would never know:
now the basement is totally clean owing to one thing left out

while happily, meanwhile, my bong's recurring wool surrounds
the big insular outside, the outside outside...
without which (i.e. some sort of outside) we're all submerged,
under water, perhaps moving, perhaps trapped, with a
lid on this high-speed bathtub


RAP 2

I sink and stare through the water – feel made of gold,
rapping, underwater, to myself, this time: rappers preserve their bling
in wheelbarrows, but we're a species left underground
and need no preservation, blind though level
with each other, knees always touching only
the observable, our harnesses essentially missing a W
for correct behavioral underpinning

aliens are attracted to the so-called 'virtual portals' in
their human burritos, ears and eyes – all abnormalities
in replicate as, of course, we're meant to have only one of each,
and plus what's more annoying: a small piece of gravel
retards formation of their society's electronic 'disk,' to be lowered
onto Earth, their instruments weeping over snarls and insults
from the great underground atom, underground reception bitching –


RAP 3

I'd just like to be an antenna for a day or just a stick
thrown into the air to hear their cries for help

Monday, July 9, 2012

ZOMBIE SYNTAX


that awkward moment when catching your arm
and wanting to express gratitude, it lets sounds down &
out through its frayed ribcage, seemingly
stacked with fucked-up coat hangers: the carcass can't
keep up the ingress much longer

a lower lip might also help: each swallow
can get very oozy, a nightmare aphasia riffing
across the naked zombie's Adam's apple –
pouches exploding the smell of leather

Saturday, July 7, 2012

EYEBALLFART


saved some side-expanse
handstanding the worst-smelling
fart

floor to ceiling foulspace;
or something to that effect

occurring in water,
every little fish in the slipstream
of its swimblade
would be desert-rolled

the fart can misguide a musical instrument:
you strum where once were the neat indentations of
gills, now sealed up

my own sentience isn't that much different in
comparison – sentenced to the drudgery of
un-wobbling a cow-eyeball seasick on the movements of its
blue Gollum-boned rag doll fuck-smurf hybrid host,
once every hour, with its foot pump

the latter gross for tending to
code tiny revelations into spider veins
but fucked
if I can help it

Friday, July 6, 2012

HICCUPS


joy can't help but squab on toxicity
to slide a cheesecake down from its fixing point
and mess the rake of logic onto a 'stop pad'

no happy medium in the dry sand –
can you please bobble on piss
and be nice to bunches of solids on theater seats

anywhere around junk I am really all 
Hubble pulled from your window, lined with “pick me gone from”
drawn ledge of high level indication
spitballing to really concentrate on my narcissist
quantified instead of sealed off
body the ash and go along to permeate,
an installation of I and we

of scrolling a shriek up the zoo
like stopping hiccuping and now I want
my hiccup back

A SPOT


a sticky, musky ambiance owing to cuddling with three-pronged
bacterial connectors, also responsible for
polygonal recesses in X-Men tissue cultures
DNA plug-ins, propellers detaching hair-root tails

the snow tassel just before congealing into a marshmallow
resiliently playing up the clown-influence
behind smashing into a hobo's face and oh shit wait …

that's more the providence of the bad mutants
also more posh crimes, like storming in and against the backdrop
of elevator music gumming up the dinner guests' bowels with
a portentous, interfering rash of footfall-acoustics

they (correctly) imagine an exploding skull providing the perfect
counterweight to Christmas, as in the middle of the table
it's recognized as only a small dark spot whose teetering in
the middle of the table makes the guests feel disorientated

magnetically hovering there, laughter from the spot
becoming angled toward the end of the spot's life cycle

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

OBSERVATION'S INK


The bridge to the Bronx is suede when in the
depressed position. Gazing across the grain is slow.
Inky observer, trying to stay awake, sight's braids
microwaving to a crawl. An old lady robbed you.
Eventually, her decency hogged the lure and spilled
something from her. It was in compensation, that she took out
a jar and invited you to put your leech in it. Dust looping
over the glass's geodesic paperweight weight.
We wanna trade pixels with you.” Meaning the dust wants to
bash you over the head with the hollow paperweight. You yawn.
You yawn until you're flat. Until you're black. Until you're matt,
dying of natural causes walking across the room.
Resurrected again on meat hooks. A gimp. Soaking up water with
your feet then drooling from the mouth until you're
a nauseous green. Whatever you are, you are no longer a user of coasters.
Would help if the bed was illuminated in nauseous green,
to bring out the bed-sized fingerprint lying on it. Not incriminating
so much as inimitable and irreplaceable and unique.
Not organic. You offered to piggyback the old lady
to the nearest bus stop. She loved every bone supporting your
pickup truck hairstyle. You're a character met on Craigslist,
ingrate biometrics. Scanners at airports read
Comic Sans crust on your irises. Terminal continuity.
The seasons that press the bridge into the water are a better person.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

MIRROR TEMPERATURE, MIRROR HATE


I don't want to die
before I get to hell

one soul-detail comes off
in the last centimeter
of travel

it's an implement of voodoo –
the gnome always
leaving the mirror
at night, stalking the corridors

normal temperature in the
mirror is
quickly achieved

such temperature is
a nexus one can only reach
when the firecracker
behind the mirror
providing both light
and heat and texture gets lost
in height

otherwise forming a yellow fire on
the mirror's lake; like the
creature at the bottom of the lake
might be family of the dust mite
puking acid on a sandcastle

temporarily, opposing industrial forces
in the bolts that hold the mirror
to the wall have the thinnest content,
making the mirror great for ruin porn

what I sometimes see in
other people, on the other hand,
funnels my gallstones
forward

stopping again when a hand
is softly put upon them

I catch myself cleaning my nose
in the mirror with
my front 'feet'

am I being inverted?

bending and crawling
to convey the meaning of
this, likewise evidenced,
on this planet, by other
users of the inverse

applying this otherworldly space
until it's too widespread,
moves too fast, looks long
and desperate: a mechanical
cock on a realistic
stick figure running
up and down a train's
stick figure cock on
which stands an unrealistic
person

a sock

on second glance a hot maid
vacuuming the sock full of suss
on a flying saucer

her right arm
is too far out during her cleaning
so cool air
can't reach
her shoulder

her alien captors
weigh her vagina's head

had the head's inner wheel
been at rest
things on the ship
would've ceased to
make sense

Monday, July 2, 2012

RETENTION


Knit by lugging the shreds of heavy things around,
although, still, after a decade, the lizard has no real head.
It's as if its mask has no end, causing it to brutally
doubt its own sentience, consisting of dark coverings on
difficult days.

On good days the sun shines in under the door
but lifting the door through the jamb, sounding
like a nutcracker...

Monster sanitarium adorning us foul.
The doll on the next park bench along only changed
position once, trees exaggerating shadows, yanking
scarlet over fence spikes.

At night our hearts run out. Into the cupboards
that thereby become grotesque and try to feel us up...

Last night some sort of Tesla machine lit its crackles
on my weird gown. Something shut in a bitter pill
the nurse said actually contained bunnies,
although they must've run out like our hearts
instead instilling the pill with their bitter lack.

I learned that certain things are evoked in brains by dunking brains
in acid. The doctor said much of the mind is a labyrinth, and
like all labyrinths, it has memories, a diorama people
stay in, in my case prompting more despair because
it's the wrong place for people to stay in because
they can run out like our hearts and like the bunnies.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

FUCK CHESS


pulls slightly at string of faux laser
dry noise teapot-bestowed

4loko to make the pleasure
based on the horrible grains of
a burn victim
curdles bodycare through the skin
and when reaching the liver,
turns into delicious Fois Gras

another stint scheduled
on Mars, so as to get
behind its creaks ala Jonah,
who'd somehow entered a whale through
its protective strips

'ah,' he said. 'Walmart,' he said –
it had, he saw, in the meantime gestated
floorboards appropriate
for the travel of green scum

halloween so typically in the
mushroom's exhaust note,
until reduced to a can,
sometimes not obvious how,
staved off by everything it approaches,
nobody responding to its voice

fractions swim as one
for “shaking typically will not hold my plastics”
in a dying-away sound of
metallic coughing

you're my defibrillator” -
I've been assigned!

you're my crowbar” -
I've reappeared again!

puppets going on tick-over
when the jumper cables come off:
the sex show's luster suddenly resembling
an enigma eating, messily, in the fashion of
pieces in a boardgame closing in

the defibrillator leaves crumbs in bed;
the crowbar hypocritically wears a 'cushion'
across its neck for self-sealing
although is already scratching its pawn-shaped boil
for some fuck chess later

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