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.”

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