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 pukeand its boiling undercurrent heals.