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.

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