Monday, September 24, 2012

PANORAMAS AND OTHER PERFORATIONS

Sweet. Hitler only had one nut.
An armpit had to have been removed gently from the testicle.
But is this an ideal flaw? I would let Steve Buscemi
cluster our masturbatorium with his eyes, yes.
But the shrine may still not work! You may experience
the loud suction of cheese. Let your nipple
stare out from the thyroidal eyelid, bleached. Listen,
if you care to take a peek, each death is still there.
The Sun is on a CD. Technologically, every pig's hemorrhoid is a
pulpit-on-a-chip. Inflatable like the day it was born?
Maybe not. Tasty? Hark, with its weird flow inflammation
laces the corn on your toe fluorescent. At least the washing machine
will no longer keep falling out of a pterodactyl.
This supernatural block wants to mingle electrochemically
with knives and forks! The frenzied wrenching of the ghoul 
deposits pulp on the beach. People will think it's merely rain 
sticking to their umbrellas. Unbeknownst to e.g. that child on a bicycle,
his helmet is a panorama.

Friday, September 21, 2012

TERRARIUM

I really love the light on this hamburger. It had followed the dirty directions of the Yeti's mons. The naval would unfold during rest, whereas before its personality was rather slight. Why turn one's pet's jizz's causation into a study? Such transmissions are terribly single-celled. The tungsten nurse getting jiggy with holes in the ground. Off those lights, the moth is sluggish, the Dalek is pimped out with prefab Crazy-Armor, and my circus-skinned big head needs a transplant. Hoe en masse. Hoe the pitch black compounds that wrap the slippery gnarl like the mosaics that give Disney its fake-looking sores. Sombre dinosaur, I challenge your vague claspers. Office stationery are an organism used in arthritic porn. That discolor upon being forgotten. My affinity for chewing my pencil. My pencil's affinity for probing my froth. See below for what could make the contraption: a) Jesus lizard across one's eyeball grooves, b) loathe ping pong so much as to fall completely silent mid-back arm. Over time the time machine has retained its shelf-life and pizazz. I told the formaldehyde that its kitsch sack was busy taking my soul and I told the shit-smeared underpants caught on the left wing of my time machine that it was a perfect accessory for my burial. It was so beautiful because it was so stationary on my time's gale, a Pac-Man blob's gait matching the surroundings of its terrarium.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

THE TECHNOLOGY THAT WOULD MAKE TUPAC EVEN BETTER

After a while, the nostrils of the hominid waiting
by the phone fall asleep. His tongue finds the
cognitive scroll wheel on his palate. Something
in him begins to find this pleasant.
The boogers suspended from the ceiling of
THIS planetarium hum. Waiting turns the hominid
into smog. Smog clippings or shavings flash around in
the smog. The mental disorder is funny because it's so long.
Like bile, or indeed heavy rain. The digits missing 
behind these eyes pogo. The hologram excretes 
5 minds. Following the fright I had on discovering
the outside world's depth, I heard, saw, and felt
only on the surface. THAT baby was me. I go 
outside and frisk my garden. I don't stop until 
all the plants have receded. People in built up areas 
provide a more realistic image of themselves than 
Tupac projecting through a towel.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

LEMONADE STAND

disorderly
no-hands

milk the
gutter
gothic

fuck
like a
tube

droidcrunchy twitches
3 times in one day,

cedes your turbine –

like a lemonade stand
scintillating
on Hot Wheels

propulsion
scrapes
dark matter
wearing a pit

the level of
impact of a
seagull

resets the deer
back one cinematic
grasswaffle

poor ghoststeak
fakes a brain

evolution in
conformity

sideshow freak
smudge,

wormpussy
shamble

mince recurred
in one place disembodied,
illegally, ineligibly

if the periodic table of elements
ever went to shit
the farm would relax

Friday, September 14, 2012

BUDDING

From being tickled again, some coagulation would later
occur again. Like nodes stressed under mysterious subliminal
budding, droplets would pupate on my legs. A pinball's number of
increments networked, reconstructed as an “L”. Likewise
an “R.” Bunnies limit my diabetic coma's acoustics.
The tooth in the feather duster did nothing wrong.
I made a sound recording of my plow both while
rehydrating upon a struck vein and while churning independently
of the earth. If death squads are soluble around jukeboxes,
why wouldn't ordinary social behavior endure storage?
Nothing can remedy the matter: you're sinister because
you remain pristine amid food fights. The rat's asshole
is unborn, it says on an ad banner. The adorable splash of
rough edges is simply a prototype. Computers digest in
low-budget blitz, with a 'Welp'. Do you think tragedy is lame?
Asteroids try to rely on levitation as their proudest, biggest effect.
They yield the stains of brain waves. Acres of gulps between
gaps on this weird algorithm's guided tour, in a condom's eye line.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

BICENTENNIAL MAN

My buzzer is no longer gentle or autumnal.
BBs ruffle interplanetary fur.
In other words my shower head's whistling is warped;
certain parts of the array's nipple rattle.
Jets are lopped off at the root. Have you ever
been nitpicked?

At the kitchen tile's core, the fossil is visible.
A saw-toothed humanoid insect protrudes from 3D mist.
Electrodes are lasciviously intent on the movable section of
a disease. Ridges on Chilled Thai taint –
a low-hanging window so marvelous,
familiar materials traced in pages that refer
to other pages. My mask is tangible.

Why, I remember asking my robot maid, would the accelerometer
make you prance around like that?
It all started going downhill from there...
From where Bicentennial Man skateboarded
a smidgen of static electricity to death.
Where now a retard dabbles in the colorful husks
of bacteria corpses. Was this just our universe – in
denying its own dearth – being senile?

Something in the vents seems pretty eager to intervene.
I smell ammonia on emotionless breath.
Had I, at some point, pissed on the stove? I remember thinking if
a human's normal distribution points wouldn't 'open up' automatically,
why –

why not jiggle them manually?

Clumps, switched on, form 'mood'. These are the atoms
of nuclear families. They may not be volatile.
An atom is merely a head stuffed until glaring.
It lives in supermarkets. In houses. In schools.
Public transport drags them along. A schoolbus quivers past –
desperately holding on to dirt and other particles.
With nostalgia I think of my robot maid:
her hands could get very cold with eagerness.
But when winding down after a long day, she had a
beautifully weak chin.

Monday, September 10, 2012

CHEAP AND DANGEROUS

The embolism makes it tricky for the horse.
A fat kid tentacle grabs
a slurry of mother brine.
The sun rides up to my neck
in placid floating gamma-ray tangles.
The fogging, willing cascade of Kent.
Hulk is cheap and dangerous.
Crochet deadening unto smoothie.
Netflix latches filthy bathrobe
on to lazy species with the remote's
compassionate cough in my hand.
Pussy eating the talking bin.
Then our house burned down
and the cinders inexorably sucked
the ruin whirly.
The community was absorbing.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

SYMMETRICAL SOUP

Neon in the roaming wad
introduces the false condition
within reality TV's radius.
Looping, love-owning aquarium.
Barbed, ball pit ambiance.
Bathing hypodermic needle in arm's length's drone,
intimacy will intertwine with it height-wise
as if with a broom. At the edges of housedirt.
Conjoined twins have many 'nooks and crannies.'
Brief bodily functions free improperly.
A mundane condiment impaired the vortex.
Soup symmetrically. Spit abnormally.
Once original places for loud, tinny noise,
buckets did not appreciate the ape's plug.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

CHICKEN NUGGETS

In Woolworths, I lug stuff around until I get used to it.
Death rests on a slope. Basically I long for it.
I seek some sort of reprieve from lugging things around.
And it seeks some sort of reprieve from wiggling.
That is something death does, by the way (i.e. wiggle) – that's a
sign it is alive, like breathing, like a beating heart.
Daylight completely reverses, to the folks inside the spaceship,
so fucking fast the spaceship moves.
In space, space is a very cold spot.
On Tatooine, creatures are varied as fuck.
Death is bored and restless and basically wiggles.
The monster is bored and basically needs to be pressed
down firmly under the child's bed if it is to ever stay put.
Everything in my childhood bedroom was poorly held by a string,
which accounts for my vague memories of childhood.
To Dracula, 'chicken nuggets' is just a phrase.
It's still sometimes difficult to use it as a villain's one-liner,
and sometimes it sounds too shrill.
Proffering that feeling in the brain tantamount to the
feeling proffered by brushing one's teeth.
When something is infected, the part that's infected starts snapping.
As in viciously.
A chicken nugget to Dracula looks like a puppy covered in a film.
All my membership cards and credit cards are laminated.
Cocaine has not been kind to their edges' natural color.
Shaving his pacemaker gives it a wet green external look, Jaba finds.
Its ringtone heralds the end times and has been memed to shit
on the internet where it has also corroded into a stark black grid.
At any given moment on Tatooine, a bulging assortment of creatures
are pushing and pulling at a fussball table.
My iron lung is my personal material.
My iron lung is good people.
It's its disguise (i.e. the film that covers the puppy is the puppy's disguise).
After passing through the solipsistic lens of a psychopathic slasher,
the arc of the celebrity sex tape slakes its rot on our very cosmos,
which is cryonically pressed down on anything that
fits its form, which basically nothing does. Everything dies.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

MY GARGOYLE

From where it perches on the furniture's
most vertical parts, I radio-control
my gargoyle's armpit farts.
It nods unnaturally, tonguing itself
in one deluxe, chin free fugue.
Catatonia is simplicity. Custom magnets
foaming in knots. The prism of
gray matter wrung alkaline.
Asthma lathers the morbid esophagus's
complex, forked paths manually.
Almost like labia that can preserve or hide
a tricycle. Spitting made beautiful in
the rapture of filaments and in
the ignition of dragon propane.
A plush effigy is burned when railing
against the country's mainframe computer.
Even our town's reservoir
wears a feral chicken sweater.

Monday, September 3, 2012

THE WALKING DEAD'S PRIMARY MODE OF TRANSPORT

Anything, basically, growing on one's head
can channel a bias for an attractive hat.
The seat of Magneto's powers is in this – so not just
primarily in greasy moth hairs.

With a box cutter, the prophet morphs his gown into
a permanent, homy crawl space. His existence seems
to expand, and it is with this expansion that he swaddles
one corn dog after another.

Why? Why waste such a gift?

Follow Google Street View's loud, clunking cement mixers
on your PC. To unwrap the earth's crusts, they needn't travel
underground, thanks to a little trick: the GSV cameras are
placed inside the crusty drums, set at 1 revolution per minute.

Anal bleaching is lonelier. The Aztecs liked to lift their dirt
into the air – they did not keep their stratosphere murky
with optical illusions. Pork responds wheezily to handjobs.
You can hear boogers in a BB gun slide like ferrous marshmallows,
from side to side.

The princess's handmaidens had forgotten her in a
stack of mattresses. She couldn't call for help because
interaction with them in the context of a cube
was not appropriate. I think now the princess looks mild.

The Walking Dead are coming for you because they got tired of
constantly being emotional. I can tell that the moments
between parking lots, when they are permitted to get out
and stretch their limbs, are frustrating to all those crammed
into the Volkswagen. What Tetris has taught us is that
unifying, and melting, and swirling together – and eating
each other – make for sparser entities and/or parts.

Hence the eternal hunger.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

UNTIL THE COTTON PEELS OUT

AIDS screws on Instagram.
Glands whore around a seahorse's ear.
Offer a cadaver the curviest environment, its bloating
will prove adaptable. Yet by now I'm sure
the human genome is quite constipated.

We need a new form of rocket science
to spawn a new form of ooze.
A few appendages cut off here and there
won't hurt, either. Starting, perhaps, with the
recurring horsehead on my butt.

I find dissection of a frog incredibly poignant.
Until the cotton peels out, and I feel
a little bit better...

A fax machine rests on the composite pancake shelf
of the human body, its pages evaporating raw in cycles.
A casket with no bottom is that beautiful place's
storm drain. Post nasal drip clunks loud
down the inner caverns of the porcelain figurine
and settles mouldering on a hidden microchip.

I only use robot bone marrow to do anything.
But it tends to accumulate folds, it tends to react to
certain harsh environmental transmissions by feeling all
garden-weedy. During breaks, one of the engineers
is given to painting his crossword puzzles silver.
Chemistry dismembers bonds until achieving a tacky sparkling.
Meth breaks down into gauze. Half-formed spines
crawl back into the sea. The more inconsistent
the jellyfish, the nauseouser.

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