Saturday, December 28, 2013

The Trial

I am in love with old roadkill's 50 shades of bursting sausages. Webbed fingers wreck asteroids in my dreams. Like meat hooks, they haunt only the buffet's gray areas. 50MB worth of streaming eviscerates puddles, contradicts geysers and geysers of Earthman pee. Tesla-weed further whips the fever into a Luddite horror show of sheathed all-you-can-eat. Look at the stupid robot cry. Jerking my empathy. Who'd ever buy the beta home empathy-jerker? An ogre which because of its demonic clockwork makes jerk-off motions at tiny life forms and tiny circumstantial fluctuations, meanly? Ironic that being on Big Brother instilled in the Nexus replicant its passion for gauche microbes, with the soft patience of a teacher. Big asteroids make it shit its pants. The latter asteroid-induced shitting of pants is a veritable soap opera embedded in stone. My warts, too, feel haunted. The protons. Oh the protons. I don't know. Webbed fingers liquidate the oddity behind Kafka's loincloth's last roaming snot-out. Yet even the meaningless conga-lines in court are not quite inert.

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Plague Jacket

Today's guest
is a BattleMech 

on which it
appears to
be raining.

Oprah herself
is the sofa-
augmented
God-eye

at once static
biology and
a film of pixels
grabbing at the
window, obscene.

The window-sensation
sexually birthing a
mechanical doodad

in the
window.

On the
horizon
amid the
horizon's
buttload
of lasers.

Raindrops
covering the
Mech,
like pores.

Pores that
slide smiling
into their
glass pods.

The great
central doodad –

reloading?

But anyway
sporting a
coat of wet
garden gnomes

a wearable
plague.  

Sunday, December 22, 2013

SEX LEGOMAN - A Christmas Poem

Matter's wet plop in original 3D, through the alternations
of a Rice Crispie's emptiness, tentatively,
moving across the kitchen counter in the arms of an ant.

Satellited by a flying fuck. The weather self-healing beneath the
squid visor. The flying fuck's snorkel. The snorkel's constant tone, eerie.
Sex Legoman's monotaint during arousal: suede.
A meat wall unbroken by genitals or anus or mouth,
up and around, from base of Lego skull
via crotch back to chin where Lego head resumes
its yawning. Snakes on a plane are genital Christmas trees:
one's mouth-anus has chin-balls. One's mouth
has a vagina. But Sex Legoman is all perineum.

Cheese-conduction occludes this T-1000.
Matter can be pawned, today. And through all of this:
magma. The electric provocation of hybrid fingers
raking a bonfire cold. Fire-resistant novelty spray on a space shuttle's
windscreen poking carrot-holes in space-fire. Consumption.
Porn receptacles emptied by the appetite of a single zoosperm.
Our local drive-in disguised by beer cans. Defects in matter.
Figures approaching, touching.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Christmas Forked

1 slick sprain gravitationally
marries itself, hemorrhoid skeleton baking
hazard suds

Lassie is the cells of the Micheal Bay singularity –
earthworm, contortionist,
post-it nap zit, nap jowls 

but the pantomime is dissonant with the real banana peel heel

hangs around
hugging

latent customer
very outside

heart of occasional non-function
out of control,
dangles plastic

robot slo-mo
picks ATM up
off
money money money money money

Exodark ejects
Ender's blooper

more arms more stark surfboard
threaten bully with Christmas fork
electrode-whorled,

under cover of dust,
as poltergeist mind-reading
artifacts go, cheaply

Monday, December 16, 2013

Grass Sizzler

Dinobarf's gross doomsday-electron
sizzles in the grass. The naked special-ed dinosaur
gets yelled at by an old, yellowed dinosaur.

10-sided, 12-faced, fair as crayons, a cyborg collapses;
green elastic cleavage erasable by motel TV remote
reflected aquatic against the ceiling.

There are algae-explosions in Resident Evil.
Vacuums in a modular zombie's filth-shells can
have different BO consistencies and can be juggled.

The voodoo of soaking the itch in frozen yogurt
squeezes a breeze through shredded arteries. 

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Flesh Waste

glitching in wizard trousers
through the cheerful erupted
backyard flesh waste
Barbie steals her frog's zen

back and forth between
Klingon hug therapy and the thuds
of its morbid jazz

bong nunchucks
touched fatty with
universe-fat

a reinterpreted cardboard cutout's skin ashes vibrating
in atomic deadpan;
a floating Loch Ness lid

the hugs are dangerous, analytical,
the inkblots booby trapped
with bacon

but the brain scan says I'm not, I'm not yet, anything,
and the offensive nubbin of my projection sinks back
into the machine 

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Funk Does Not Last Long, Very Fog

Wintry memories, like spiders stuck shiny
in the cold porridge of the mind-software,
infest crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.
Sordid farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.
Let's hear your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked
in separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.
Yeah, we've all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt or at a low point.
We've seen Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen
skeleton. New Age underwear. Burger gun.
Orally, in this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a distance.
Imagine a life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited
to the arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your Maxim.
Oh lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces reads,
stop hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”
Lifehack: stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to
prevent the sun from baking your dump. 

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Bum-Shaped Smoke Rings

invincible birthday hologram
pivoting lukewarm

cohesive, armpit fart-relieving surface-level
steering fake, jointed pet round
trailerpark GIF

(pig beam)

smoking the bad taste out of trees

(longer pig beam)

(jointed, smoke rings)

(fart)

(longer fart)

(jointed, smoke rings)

map of the infinity-booger; melted salt
recreational, pneumatic mini ax Zod-sproing;
that's some gob-crusted

da Vinci Code shit
right there, invincibility in its pseudoscience's

Gatorade void, three-legged
encapsulation

by a poorly
cropped T-Rex

Saturday, December 7, 2013

The Fucked-Up Butler

The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at
the cyber town meeting jostles for position on
the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of
boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as
the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of
a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he
hoarded on the space station were interchangeable
with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged
with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.
With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,
like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in
olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human
contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine
idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.
Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.
Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then it
fucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up. 

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Logbook Of A Sociopath

[As the Stone Age's edges fall away,
a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.
Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.
Its interior is lacking.
It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]

WALL-E's Logbook:
Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.
It felt so good, working loose my clone.

WALL-E's Logbook: Took several weeks
to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding
claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw's exact inherent
cone-space like an actual ice-cream.
The “ice-cream” itched.

WALL-E's Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.
Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark's strange marks, here and there.

WALL-E's Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;
the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.
I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,
threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.
Often there's very heavy rain.

WALL-E's Logbook:
A little coked up. Bruises better now.
Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.
Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin' it.
Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!

WALL-E's Logbook:
Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.
But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.

WALL-E's Logbook:
The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.
I laser it off; all access to the sky
is restricted, now.


Sunday, December 1, 2013

Jesus Pop

A funeral after a fashion. Holograms at the back of the throat, bleeding. Unrealistic cooking. Poking from a sleeve. Steeped in motherlessness. A gaggle of parasites and I. The pox – the fist of a fancy word. Evil by the most autistic orc; a bridge by the multifaceted squirt. His mug's tubes, swaying. Obnoxious. A nebula. Carving whose goiter craps kinks. A twitching mirror reflection. Texturally plumbing the strap-on nerve. Its toe. Oatmeal reality TV coined the eternal jingle, promiscuously, from under a USB cleft lip. With one's fanny pack's dynamo, moon worship-stroke the id. Pop Jesus to spread his trash talk. Here's one amputee not made for straight nails. 

Friday, November 29, 2013

Popeye-esque War Flashbacks

Just above the deathbed's complex vegetation
a soul coldly spiderwebs.

Eggnog resin warmly impregnated
the World War I mitten
when its wearer fell, shot?, hand
placed wrongly – dog shit?

A closeup of Popeye ruffles the cockles of one's heart.
The family dog stopped using the treadmill as a toilet.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

The Swayze Centaur

Flowers fistfight, as if shed by a stiff tuning fork.
So has the Centaur been debunked in the twilight –
cartoonish Swayze-acrobatics embodied by a used car,

a veritable plantation of human smells
embodying the crack baby on its dope
arc interacting with dolphins.

Though the vices of the serial killers among dolphins
are all dark metaphors for things that poke through rings,

bath salt piston plumes trail
the Centaur's transition from tripedal T-Rex
to imperial albino

shedding vertebrae like a spring wedged in pulp:
vertebrae satellited as if by the
temperamental trill of
a molar,

defibrillated senseless by
the interdimentional
jawbone –

every pimp glares gloriously,
shedding

Like scales, the lightning bolt of a dead
god falls from
the eyes of the deaf

A man and a woman put LOTR on loop,
saying: “I am.”
“You're a small sore on my knee, healing.”
“Tiling the earth.”

Google Earth traces
Santa's bloody trajectory
through somebody's sleepover –

the sasquatch-textures of
congealed chocolate piss
outline the Easter Bunny's
squeaking human chassis

Friday, November 22, 2013

Angry Pigs

A parking lot's worth exhumed by grave diggers,
the Special K self-cancels, baroque.
Castration curdles in space.
The specter of alien home surgery ties Bambi's
dangling rib cage and pickled rectum
together in a taxonomic rainbow as elastic as the
magnetic fields of this very UFO.
Smokescreening, Elmo liberally smears fecal wax on space's shiny
black horror-monolith, the root's O-face sunk in rock, walrus-
weeping rusty achingly. Dreamy drapes hang the thought bubble dirty, inside:
“Somewhere,” he thought, “a bear-suited alien is getting sucked
off in the name of, and on an altar to, his science, recumbent
as a wet pig.”

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Twin Peaks, As Understood By Someone Who Didn't Understand Twin Peaks

A semen-slathered robotic arm held the Log Lady's log.
A sliver of the intrepid selfie it helped take would drift
through Special Agent Dale Cooper's Power-Point presentation.

A catapult stationed in the heart of Saturn's ball pit
would distort the sky; on entering our atmosphere, its rubbery
payload would catch fire in fern-like strobes.

Lynch lets us explore the weird stages of “home” for the can opener;
babies veggie-crawl from the mouths of evil squeeze-bots
that assist in virgin births. Metallic rooftops swarm
the mystery shoe.

Curly horse head wrapped in Neanderthal bandana abuzz with recreating bonds –
for inside this wonderland-helmet a glass Earth's sinuses
puff drone-transmissions. Laura Palmer's yearbook pic reverberates with
extracts from an afterthought, as preludes to an alternate reality but also as bait.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

Dayglo Carny

Dew conceals the dayglo carny.
Like germs, in the tombstone’s blinking of sharpish tissues.
‘Nice germ lance,’ Ernie says,  
Re its alloy’s neighborly spasm
Amidst zero-gravity tendon-despair.
You’re a sickening shoplifter, she says.
Framed in falling soil.
Chipmunk ribs are numbers:
They reverse cowgirl nightmarish wheelbarrows.
The veneer’s slight gradient’s smell of wet wool,
nacho cheese gleaming,  
a dopamine pustule but full of water,
the rattling chunk of implanted gum,
inflammatory

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

A Separation Of Dead Parts

The donor's organ rears its ugly head.
A rudimentary pump teleports the blue bolus
from the abattoir straight into a black hole
1978 light years away. The black hole swallows,
shits – filling a test tube with the grayish brown sweat of a
hillbilly food fight. Only a psycho would stab a
black hole through a shower curtain, causing a scream
to spider outwards from the center of the Earth.

I pray for a sexier reality.
The Na'vi pray for the hallucinations of a shopping trolley terrorizing the neighborhood
to stop.

I lose myself in a phone book.
Retinal cancer turns my eyes into Oreos.
My avatar's mustache turns into The Blue Amorous Mangler.
Universal seepage sexually harvested by blue spongiform holocaust-mustache.
Heat sacrificed by my avatar's LEGO taint.
A sexier reality that is all about the separation of dead parts
in memento mori pinups.

A Tardis swallows logic with its steam.
Bong germs mop up the leftover crumbs.
A mutant turd ramps the toilet paper
and lands in an embrace of deep-sea laundry, wondering:
Of what precisely am I a symbol?

After running into Santa up there, astronauts fall into fucking comas
instantly cursed upon contact with his onion-like Santa-chemical.
Seen from every angle, balding through the acid ether,
this psychic onion spouts evil pockets in its translucent scalp,
pockets not filled with anything, not even thoughts.
Hooters is filled with boobs, and the homeless bring their thoughts
to communicate with them. Before long, the thoughts are big,
and the Milky Way sports a foamy outer layer.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Evil Dentist

While, like pee splashback on eBay, the torso of a stem cell looks all
flat in a solar eclipse, its ballooning skeleton arms
keep being dragged along by a hoary jetpack –
a suicide-ET going multiple-Cinderella
on his gaming console, mud-wrestling
neurological pewter that's already been diluted by
sex and violence.

Stepping out into the sun, this potato loses its eyebrow's connecting screw.
A dark dentist amidst his enamel housewares,
it wears an artificial heart on a chain
while blogging – eyebrow-less, potato-chested – about anxiety and
other medical emissions. An abstract blowfish fills its masochistic visualizations –
X-ray vision's salad fringes line their post-nuclear footprints.
Again, like the Babylon termites churn out, flattened
to reduce friction – deformed by overdubbing.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Fuck A (Rubber) Duck

Earth's last terra ingognita can be seen from space.
The others had been licked into alignment by the ocean,
bedside shadows analogous to shaved meat.

Novelty musk – the new addition to an ancient line of zombie wear,
fossil-deadweight propped up by ashen metronomic farts.
In the next aisle, Slender Man's two-pronged forehead vein superimposes a
lightening bolt of moisture on his blank face.
His soul, laced with coffin jelly, burps.
His Crocs wield a Rolls Royce's womb-magic.
Wobbly tetrominoes born of a scrotal Rubik's Cube.

A spooky resin resurfaces as the hatchet unmasks the dummy,
probing for a rosebud behind anomalous curtains.
Tropical cinematic projections on Twilight Zone shorts.
Food coloring dripping from the assholes of snakes fat on rubber ducks,
or from the tiny kink at the soft core of an increasingly lifelike Big Mac.

In one gentlemanly goat, Super Mario is reconciled with a blatant nonentity:
his own necro-long johns. On bath salts,
he's telekinetically sculpting earwax
into a death mask, a balaclava dentally
violently thrusting. He looks sick.
He feels his waxen combover's too-powerful grip.

In the distance, the disconnect between the skyscraper of 8-bit puke
and its boiling undercurrent heals.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Reefer

Oblivion used to be sexy all over –
gathered near an affectionate but elusive pore.

Feeding it splits it, the spewing metal lampshade of Pinhead's constipation.
In a metallic confluence of Gulag desiderata,
aorta-yolk returns home –
a prodigal curiosity.

While Stockholm syndrome forges a sock
through which his dickcheese bores,
Hitler's growing amusement is inappropriate;
it has suddenly mushroomed, like a werewolf,
a sebaceous human centipede
that, the bigger it gets, disappears into the crowd.

Literal moth leak here and there sticks dandruff-style
to the blades of a figurative lawnmower, which is attractive to it,
which is a flapping, spring-loaded cluster of literal and figurative
Blackface magic.

Things slowly and deliberately scrape the pinata. What the unfathomable membrane
broadcasts alternates between lumpy bumping carts and omniscient schoolgirl.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Halloween Poem

i
Remote controlled
meaty squiggle, ready

for death.

Creepy-crawly
spinal cord

on ice,

occupying dreaming's
multi-blob prison.
Escaping the synth-fueled circus,
epileptic

shapeshifting.

Donnie Darko wallows in
the prism; tap water alters his

knuckles.

Worms burrow
in nostrils, digital-green.
Slime holds euthanasia-tubing

in place.

Wet-flog amphibious

Mogwai.

Grapple with a combination
of evil robot whodunit
and neolithic fungus's inherent

glow sticks.

Unfriend an X-Man.
Ghostly FB search results.
Rare hopelessness offered by the

tractor beam.

Adult droid showing asshole.
Abducted by aliens.

“Droid.”

Sensitive electric ass-acne.
“Asshole

stars.”

ii
Flying backwards drowns dinosaurs
in a clock's continuum.
The batting doormats
of ruined eyelids.

The dancing foreskin monster
merely entangled with the illusion
of a convenience store:
like laughter inside an ATM,
his starship coasts through stringy space.

I am merely a Freddy Krueger
corrupted by a bath,
fog machine syndrome drooping under haunt-
lust.

Gaseous D&D fluffing puppy fabric.

A soap opera
of ornamental plague
rained by demon skull.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Aborting Mickey Mouse

A child doodles a crater.
Which becomes the Grim Reaper's church.
The sun dissects the opacity of the bloated sea monster.

Syphilitic clown-sinew brewed up by incest
in a horseshoe of alternative bladders;
Bollywood speed-dating
in formations of decaying bugs.

To the glorifying catcalls of ghouls, SpongeBob's shorts recrudesce –
replacing a McDonald’s tripod
with a bony Mount Doom.
Blackened, half-aborted Mickey Mouse-polystyrene
left to be raised by wolves.

Warhol's ADD disfigured his voodoo doll. By now an outdated Ewok,
buried alive in the form of smoothly stacked Pringles,
it moonwalks a braid of crumbs to the anus of a vending machine ...
along the paisley fringes of vertigo and Warp Drive's stink,

the hollowed-out basement's
shoggoth-outflow disguised
as paths bent weird by floods.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

nightmare spacewalk

Diarrhea freeze-framed under mysterious circumstances
is not a hoax - but self-fulfilling, richly blinding. A 'ready,' thermos-aggregated
genie tic-tac hob-nobbing bakelight-bloated.

Orgy-sticks bob up and down under an invisibility cloak; a peaking hive.
Atomic chalking regrows skeleton bangles from the rancid cells
of a ghost plague.

Embalming only matches intangibles – with underground spirit-yellow –
encrypted yarn of idiot musk unraveling like an impulsion, cassettes, etc.
Hybrid-pajama spanning omni-chlamydia and so on.

Under the same impractical curse that My Little Pony spacewalks insectoid,
homoerotic exorcism on SecondLife airs cunt implants.
I just might kill the nigga.

Groceries may cohere in a troll's cold eyelids with earlobe-boundaries of
normal Eggnog, false memories will just keep juicing the whole Erf.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

sexy golem

Netherworld overused in shower curtain timelapse.
Translucency at critical mass.
Transcend cesspool. Freaky haunt.
Nestled unease at cuckoo's nest's bad base.
Holding in berserk entity.
A hatching mothball's windy fringes.
Money murk for doll hickey.
Mug about-face; copped cropped ass-hole.
Abandoned jaws retained fartless.
I'm frog geyser-mollifying. 
Thumb tainted rug-engulfed.
Taint-snuff with thin film of shapeshifter skull.
Engorging organic mitt golem-sexy.
Volcanic vacuum cleaner darkness.
Etsy clump of oscillating nipples.
Hobo doom-knitting's 2D marks.
Clockwise attraction, Freudian-sized.
Roach-trace personal colony.
Hollow Buddha SquarePants.
Flamethrower leaning out Care Bear-boned. 

Friday, September 6, 2013

brown food

Brown bleeding through a shit sieve foreshadows freckles –
crypto kites the sky god's face swallowed, their visual imprints
flapping weirdly numb. Each a dead flipper scientifically reanimated,
'miraculously' kickin' it in Bill Nye twerk sock. Our block is pretty
dormant with Goonies on Ritalin, i.e. young urban wretches in
sticky juxtaposition with each other. Segas spurt dog eared.
Front lawns so buttery as to be wrapped in light. Picnic bouts
of dinosaur-fleecing, tendrils reaching the four ends of a Happy Meal.
Testicles are oddly cranial, elaborately loitering spider-bodied clusterfucks,
usually. Had pussies not lovelily melted space, they too would've behaved
like dicks. Barnacles merely take to the nearest object, usually. On Instagram,
the curb attaches to an ice-cream; in real life the ice-cream again self-dislocates
and/or saltily self-decapitates. I dislike and/or kick roast origami centaur.
I recycled my cat fetish online into brown tears like huge fucking zeppelins,
as if cats intestinally were flush with baked beans.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

cartoon throb

blood-polished
bungle slapstick
low wolf

unvisitable
wall-to-wall
steaming hungry

unhindered silk cliff
machine-bouncing,
segued hugging bends
hidden remotely, carcasses fake

heartwarming
custom setting
throbbing

improvised crucifixion
asteroid chase
sentient memory foam bug-out
plopped pasty,

run out of
puppy jammers...

propeller moth
howling full of neon release
Grim Reaper connective tissue
on red dot sparse-spiral eyelash-repeat

with gnarly mattress aftertaste
a debunked vacuum door:
the prosthesis with a life of its own

cartoon-creeping from shredder
hanging on by body of shooting star
eat each other, a dimmer product

of Chinese whispers tooth decay 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

lumpy bath water

Connecting brains eventuates a loss of the whole system
Combing the tub of sensory information
Blows my mind, a blown mind looks
Like a tub of jelly beans or a vegetable bypassing a stop sign
A ferris wheel keeping rebounding back
I want to die, I want to die
The funeral home catalyzes a drop in molecules
Armed with all my barf crimes
Clustering weightless
A formation of finger smell
As a true ninja would hideously thread
Ghostbusters vs. gimp and the vague
Waterline of a gag reflex
Evacuated from a darkening inflatable pool
Super Soaker doom bleep
My veins cradle the roadkill and all its flaws
Lumped into a metronome costume
Anthropomorphic radiator
Its apelike deliverance color-coded
By a logic in the bath
Specialized to eventually OK
Holographic floaters, stinkers, etc. 

Thursday, August 29, 2013

TRON - live sack

the super
computer's inner
tongue-shaped
planet's

Victorian deep-
throat mall taste

gall paste

flammable beneath our grasp

a snail rim
brain
interface

as thick-skinned
as alien
wrestling

laundering sweatshirt signals
teabagging occult drones

rasping; crawling away in the depressing LEGO gutter,
a sack-enlivening
box cutter balancing
tenderly on
our biology's

sagging sepsis, with the irreversible arpeggios of pulp on a defibrillator.

TRON's canine complexion widens with relief –
poop cloning in the program's yellow eyes.

Talk about a traumatic reversal.

Monday, August 26, 2013

cryptic Tupac

Bog damage obeys its ramifications' insane assault leak, with graceful incongruity.
Hear the quarry's thrumming asymmetry. Splashy human being. Creampie interlinkages feathered in a grossly solid romance of honky diabetic offshoots and poached kid toy. The smell is not the only thing that improves. Derived transcranially from a clown, its poetic permutations pluck the passive intestine from a hot rod. Tupac is a two-pronged cryptid that coughs raw tranquility into the back of beef's throat. The cripple's rise's parts' sheen. A corruption of transparency; a theater seat grimacing beneath sex offender robot soldier balls. The numb glam of desiccated parking lot animal sacrifice. The absence of a theoretical butterfly limb contaminating the forest's complex vertical upholstery.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

RAPE VAN II – another mutation

I lose hair in a trance. I then pay bogus money to get rid of this head of
recursive frisbee taint. The bane of flower petals not sitting flush.

Humpty Dumpty's scientifically impossible nipple ring
glances his lobster windpipe, which looks more worn with
each eerie, doorag-inverting exhalation and each chugging,
navel-tessellating inhalation...

Accidental religion under Airwolf's morgue hood.
Lumpy drips abracadabraed by the wifebeater of an aroused/accursed wife-beater.
The loose gravel proliferating around its Emo pump.
Proving memes have the lifespans of rubble.

And bear suits full of cum are a foible of the slave hordes,
long after their collective fungal bathroom fluff had clogged the gills eroded
into the cardboard cliff cutout in front of the villain's stuffy lair they
helped reticulate full of detours apropos of nothing. Shadowed roadworks,
gash-like in the glare of the kidnap-ambulance... 

Sunday, August 18, 2013

sirens

Mutation corrects the snake’s migraine eyelid.
A mass of kinetic ectoplasm unsticks from my leg, delivering
the pizza’s glans.

Happy processor and liquid hashtag meanwhile align into anatomically neutral hemispheres –
i.e. a grid of psychosis rolling across gaping little trunks on a demon axis of severe plush.
Alarm cancels the voice in my head.

Revenge as a stimulant dyes Snow White’s vine meta-ghetto.
Necromancy haunts death’s inflation with fantasy static.

The amusement park levitates
as one piece of holy
rampant silicone.


Eyestalks succumb to wonder, not alarm.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Carlos Danger!

A clown has browned this area. Carlos “Bunsen burner” Danger's
science experiment conjured up a lifeless bicarbonate of soda burp,
by contrast. But an alleviated wormhole is still a ramifying wormhole:
IBM-noir innards – electronics as arcane as Bolivia, as heavy as New York –
purveying McDonalds as abstract as a virgin. Personalized resurrected fudge
compressed in a mold like the amygdala on LSD, pushing out through
the Martian layers of Batman's svelte rubber. The object of a tick's addiction
now singes its face. Sometimes an opaque coil strays like a black pube from
the otherwise transparent disease. Moldy pollution eclipses the hellishly bright
depression in those eyes, but soon settles and sticks to the floor.
Suddenly, in the clearance, you're being fondled by a plant. Face to face with
the plant: pain's beautifully fractured travels mirrored in the plant's sweaty face.
You two's two-headed mouth temperature; as warm as washing your hands
after the massacre. Nursing the bottle's cork remains demeaning to the blue
sinkhole of divinity. Groggy suicidal falling blocks are more widespread on
social networks. The Balrog's jumpsuit is sunshine-covered and its crotch
dispenses uranium PEZ. 

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