An image of Betty White and her stygian posse
momentarily nullifies Hell. Badbreath
cowlicks rugburn on wigs. A centipede
creeps gurgling into catnip, spine-paddles
ruffled, gouging an iron lung. I crank in
my sleep. Toasters erratically goop in my
crank-dreams. Motherfucking antennas
against a misty background etc. In this world,
placid antics act as social buffers.
Stephen Hawking talks like the devil.
Dry-humping drainpipes invokes
the body of a feather, which fills
a tub with occult equations. After a major judder,
there's goblin shit everywhere. The asphalt
gets psychedelic cancer, a behavioral costume
made in the act of consuming one's twin
in the womb; of stimulating spidersin a van; massaging vase water.