Saturday, March 29, 2014

My Dog, Killing It

It depends on whom you ask.
Hobbit piss runs hot down my leg.
Wet feet bound in creepy haircuts.
BRB, says the Bible, creepily.
Heat weeping from plastic takeout bags.
The prehensile butthole of time reaching slowly for something out of frame.
In the action movie, pain is data-waste.
Dragon-foreskin betrays a Lego-like attention to detail.
I picture infinity's disco pustules astride my Netflix dirt-throne.
Reality always happens to be estranged from the 3-D printed human.
Cultivated in the tropical dinobladder of suspended animation, like beer.
The periphery of my Xbox hardly ever is calm.
At times, on the cusp of mixtape recoil, I believe “peace” is the go-to laxative.
Heavy undigested elements fall through me and my dog, Doug.
Whichever demonic sonic abstraction is resurrected first.
In the basement.
Kill it.
Before the kinetic flame of the abstraction flings its poop at you.
The bogeyman fears a reality, some reality; any reality.
Dream-addled ashes/sexy pollution; the pervasive Anime in revolution.
A posy of abstract tube-termini, the Baldwins are reactive with DOS.
Ebola, within tolerance, used to be hip.
Google Earth was still but a manhole cover.
Awash with Bigfoot's party-colored cum.
Artificial space between space, on the eve of the infamous gap-mouth.
It was fashionable at the time to comb pizza with a comb.
We severed the old Periodic Table from its constituent organic gaming console.
Like a mutant turtle, I like to put on toad-vision at parties.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

RIP Van Loinleather

In a haunted painting on the side of a bus, Jaws III smirks
big Coca-Cola letters that follow you. As if to uproot weeds
from a treasure map, a postprandial tongue elbows shark molars.
Shark eyes follow, too, watery  i.e. subterranean windshield shavings
spill from twirling optic parasols onto the dashboard's rape van
loinleather. Eyes fed and still connected by hunger-tubes to Santa's brain
(a machine which nuzzles what it thinks about). Serial killer physics
dribble from a boiling clock onto the titular shark's antlers,
like Satan's tweets disappearing in pizza, mimicking subconscious

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Sick Starfish

Holiday is a better sick electron:

Than winter to my pocket rodent.
Than graceful holograms in a web of whale crucifixion wire.
Than the element of free will.
Than longhaired lampshades baptized by pneumatic terror-barbers.
Than trees bordering gloryholes with aggressive collapsing.
Than a sick starfish in the hyperreal calcium hydroxide city.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Space Photos

An onboard throat controls the Muppets.
Alien jungles sewn together behind sharp little teeth
with electronic cigarette butts fluff up every jet of fake breath.
Your browser jerk-scrolls its darker side's dick.
Urban wrestling frayed my exo-dinosaur into its component algae.
The mass of the fast-food thrown at the toilet
corresponds to the mass of 3-D printed Zen.
REM cake-flies jazz up the town's sleep paralysis.
Surgical bloodstains pack a giant GIF
but aesthetically suffer from the occult glare.
What was merely thought to be Cinderella crying in a dumpster
turned out actually to be the Third Reich forging apps
from exploded urine in a jar. I now have an app for
a void shaped like the Exorcist's reflective horse.
Woolly needs perpetuate Bitcoins on chaotic pimp paper.
The space photos astronomers like to show us are cries for help. 

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

[Reddit Does The Ether.]

Fetal bear.
Fear beams absent eye contrast.
Death Star foul. An overwhelming video.
Laundering sawdust through colliding nights.
Gangnam diaper combustible greenhouse black.
An Odyssey for the complex floater.
At a magnetic spa Tesla's wig embraces magnetic piss.
Cracks entrain choo choo ^ ^.
Blowjob-infest blimp defect. Bucket-interrupt words.
What pussy abduction does to the former ether.
Floral pay phone booth bakes Popeye's fecal autism.
Plantations muzzle the science fiction stench.
Fuck the fedora infection, though.
? Ah, You Re-Entry-Addled Conehead.
? Axis of sawed-off cadaver chihuahua.
? Pale from dystopian Red Bull exposure!
>Slash cinnamon brow.
>Orally laugh barf.
! Suck drone.
! Etch blood's nano big bang.
! Kindly @ a church's DIY skeleton.
Cavemen frowning mimic the Avengers.
Climax em-dash. The angriest werewolf fossil coaster-effect.
Hatchet horns with crystal trout.
Yo-yo octopus bleak. An amorphous mustered heart.
Excel slasher slather.
Wither the ether..

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Comet-Tailed #sundaypoem

Wow, this author writes about life-size trash. 
Some of it comprises the tail of a comet.
Check out the stain's flattened pearl;
turtle-oil operatically launched by
the clockwork's orange sock;
body parts covered in the dew
of a surreal multiverse, etc.
Although because of generic murder-acts,
hot polymers crackle at the cores of 
a billion free e-books,
this stem cell impaler is Tron 
all lizard-frontal again,
a radioactive pauper popping 
enemas throughout SimCity
with the decaying cucumbers
of a BMX:
t-shirts underground 
lift in the wind:
a bloodied pickax signals forgiveness 
of the apocalyptic sea 
monster's gland.

Friday, March 14, 2014


The salad sounds Seinfeld makes as you watch it
on LSD, jerking it. Cry vomiting. The nausea. Eyes filling
with Vaseline every time their jaw flesh winks.
Tetris home engineering as practiced by the bloodied destroyer.
UFO vacuum cleaner vertebrae probing the emotional chambers of Horse Facebook.
Pumping the brain region where a vertical lawnmower
curdles Scrabble letters amid the dog zoo assonance of delayed go-kart
and butter-fueled Holy Christ at metro-underpants levels of vacant Garfield.
Imagine the despair of an anthropomorphic raccoon. Ear-exposed in shrunken 
gimp mask,the one true TV-colored unicorn stands in the room on square feet.
Prosthetic Lovecraft photoshopped as potted mirage. Moist balls strewn in
ramifications of 8-bit ocean, insect malware, gory jelq. Through the Stargate's
African beads, marshmallow traffic lights are being skinned at dawn.
Pigeon perfume on the grass.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Funny Radiant Poltergeist

as the dry-cleaner fingers of NASA
self-amputate above the Phoenix's bird-boobs
and glimmers of hypnotic scat-fade long as fuck-monster
spaghetti accrete into a compact parking lot
massaged downriver by the magnetic fields of afterworld brain damage
subtly melding deer-deaths by dint of Porta-Potty bug-splooge [YEAH]
as with the buoyancy of a pile of toenails
and with the undead electronics of
an out-of-body ghetto blaster
wart-irked and stalking Spock-like 
a Hubble's worth of seahorse foreskin
air-quotes” constellations of Texas face-hugger
like sick gas creeping penis-mouthed [UNQUOTE]
from radiant poltergeist lung-currents
shattering Magneto's Polaroid-stiffened bunny-decoder 
Venn-vagina wet on the gradient of expanded brains
squeezed [QUOTE] out by a transparent tree house
Super Mario-infused like the most gangsta religion rooted in cookies 

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Rejected Ideas For A New Morphsuit Ad

If you stare into the abyss, you will fuck up the abyss. Here's a montage of the infection. Brilliant thaw dulls blood. Like the cellophane-like membrane of a cozy fireplace, Satan's Morphsuit weeps raw magma. Organic gods stroke each others' orange peel, trippin balls on Viagra. They have about as much fun as aliens visiting earth in rental ozone diapers. Amoebas hear in bland stereo, skin trapped in animated acne. Emphysemic Lego dances to its own farty clicks, sits cross-legged on Mars's video game moss. At one point, universe-fat becomes the Bigger Picture. On earth, I failed every barbwired polygraph. It was relieving. Digging how chemistry accelerates self-awareness, at parties. Seducing stones out of hiding. Filling a crack in the door with limbs that try to stage a chicken uprising in order to run through the sunset's Jurassic pancake. The soul's dark matter now wears Christmas jumpers while its digital muscles mow the lawn, forming a big wound that spills trash from its gross sphere. Dials spaz out, eccentric shitfaced mystery-manure sprout erogenous touch points shaped like hooves. At last, in a fusing of channels rooted in worn-out spandex, the haunted-house echoes of friction are sealed in by the constriction of beauty.

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