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

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 

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