I am in love with old roadkill's 50 shades of bursting sausages. Webbed fingers wreck asteroids in my dreams. Like meat hooks, they haunt only the buffet's gray areas. 50MB worth of streaming eviscerates puddles, contradicts geysers and geysers of Earthman pee. Tesla-weed further whips the fever into a Luddite horror show of sheathed all-you-can-eat. Look at the stupid robot cry. Jerking my empathy. Who'd ever buy the beta home empathy-jerker? An ogre which because of its demonic clockwork makes jerk-off motions at tiny life forms and tiny circumstantial fluctuations, meanly? Ironic that being on Big Brother instilled in the Nexus replicant its passion for gauche microbes, with the soft patience of a teacher. Big asteroids make it shit its pants. The latter asteroid-induced shitting of pants is a veritable soap opera embedded in stone. My warts, too, feel haunted. The protons. Oh the protons. I don't know. Webbed fingers liquidate the oddity behind Kafka's loincloth's last roaming snot-out. Yet even the meaningless conga-lines in court are not quite inert.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
is a BattleMech
on which it
is the sofa-
at once static
a film of pixels
grabbing at the
sexually birthing a
central doodad –
coat of wet
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Matter's wet plop in original 3D, through the alternations
of a Rice Crispie's emptiness, tentatively,
moving across the kitchen counter in the arms of an ant.
Satellited by a flying fuck. The weather self-healing beneath the
squid visor. The flying fuck's snorkel. The snorkel's constant tone, eerie.
Sex Legoman's monotaint during arousal: suede.
A meat wall unbroken by genitals or anus or mouth,
up and around, from base of Lego skull
via crotch back to chin where Lego head resumes
its yawning. Snakes on a plane are genital Christmas trees:
one's mouth-anus has chin-balls. One's mouth
has a vagina. But Sex Legoman is all perineum.
Cheese-conduction occludes this T-1000.
Matter can be pawned, today. And through all of this:
magma. The electric provocation of hybrid fingers
raking a bonfire cold. Fire-resistant novelty spray on a space shuttle's
windscreen poking carrot-holes in space-fire. Consumption.
Porn receptacles emptied by the appetite of a single zoosperm.
Our local drive-in disguised by beer cans. Defects in matter.
Figures approaching, touching.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
1 slick sprain gravitationally
marries itself, hemorrhoid skeleton baking
Lassie is the cells of the Micheal Bay singularity –
post-it nap zit, nap jowls
but the pantomime is dissonant with the real banana peel heel
heart of occasional non-function
out of control,
picks ATM up
money money money money money
more arms more stark surfboard
threaten bully with Christmas fork
under cover of dust,
as poltergeist mind-readingartifacts go, cheaply
Monday, December 16, 2013
Dinobarf's gross doomsday-electron
sizzles in the grass. The naked special-ed dinosaur
gets yelled at by an old, yellowed dinosaur.
10-sided, 12-faced, fair as crayons, a cyborg collapses;
green elastic cleavage erasable by motel TV remote
reflected aquatic against the ceiling.
There are algae-explosions in Resident Evil.
Vacuums in a modular zombie's filth-shells can
have different BO consistencies and can be juggled.
The voodoo of soaking the itch in frozen yogurt
squeezes a breeze through shredded arteries.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
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
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
but the brain scan says I'm not, I'm not yet, anything,
and the offensive nubbin of my projection sinks backinto the machine
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Wintry memories, like spiders stuck shiny
in the cold porridge of the mind-software,
infest crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.
Sordid farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.
Let's hear your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked
in separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.
Yeah, we've all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt or at a low point.
We've seen Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen
skeleton. New Age underwear. Burger gun.
Orally, in this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a distance.
Imagine a life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited
to the arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your Maxim.
“Oh lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces reads,
“stop hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”
Lifehack: stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to
prevent the sun from baking your dump.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
invincible birthday hologram
cohesive, armpit fart-relieving surface-level
steering fake, jointed pet round
smoking the bad taste out of trees
(longer pig beam)
(jointed, smoke rings)
(jointed, smoke rings)
map of the infinity-booger; melted salt
recreational, pneumatic mini ax Zod-sproing;
that's some gob-crusted
da Vinci Code shit
right there, invincibility in its pseudoscience's
Gatorade void, three-legged
by a poorlycropped T-Rex
Saturday, December 7, 2013
The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at
the cyber town meeting jostles for position on
the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of
boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as
the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of
a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he
hoarded on the space station were interchangeable
with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged
with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.
With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,
like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in
olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human
contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine
idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.
Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.
Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then itfucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
[As the Stone Age's edges fall away,
a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.
Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.
Its interior is lacking.
It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]
Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.
It felt so good, working loose my clone.
WALL-E's Logbook: Took several weeks
to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding
claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw's exact inherent
cone-space like an actual ice-cream.
The “ice-cream” itched.
WALL-E's Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.
Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark's strange marks, here and there.
WALL-E's Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;
the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.
I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,
threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.
Often there's very heavy rain.
A little coked up. Bruises better now.
Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.
Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin' it.
Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!
Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.
But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.
The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.
I laser it off; all access to the sky
is restricted, now.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
A funeral after a fashion. Holograms at the back of the throat, bleeding. Unrealistic cooking. Poking from a sleeve. Steeped in motherlessness. A gaggle of parasites and I. The pox – the fist of a fancy word. Evil by the most autistic orc; a bridge by the multifaceted squirt. His mug's tubes, swaying. Obnoxious. A nebula. Carving whose goiter craps kinks. A twitching mirror reflection. Texturally plumbing the strap-on nerve. Its toe. Oatmeal reality TV coined the eternal jingle, promiscuously, from under a USB cleft lip. With one's fanny pack's dynamo, moon worship-stroke the id. Pop Jesus to spread his trash talk. Here's one amputee not made for straight nails.