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,

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

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