TO THE MANY JANITORS THAT HAVE STARRED IN SCOOBY-DOO

to the ions undergoing Walmart's brutal rite of passage – robot vegetarianism is often the right swab

but have your salivary glands be very beer-thoughtful

you will emerge tired, haggard – a traveler on the edge of a hairy stellar polyp grasping at objects – most notably the blue hopping subliminal vaguely Coke-a-Cola-like truck – knowing as certainly as you know anything:

Traveling by Tardis induces constipation.

in the mouth of the sacred cow, the harmonica's puffed-up neural circuits –

like any good outfit complementing a large tongue by spreading itself corrugated-thin – performing symbols almost as well as Rorschach origami – like the Batman logo sallow-weeping

Scooby-Doo puzzled by your average fistfucker; the mystery framework at all times faithfully adhered to – it's astonishing how the locks they'd pick they'd pick with suction cups

skull of Yoda, a trough of impenetrable meaning nestled in its prognathous jaw – the glow in the dark immune system sliming up the cave's walls Shaggy's puzzling over, now, asking – while the janitor grins behind his mask:

“How sensitive must sushi be before it starts vibrating? How obscene?”

OTHER PEOPLE

Other people are a logical poison.

The intolerance Rolodex

of this beta humanoid

is calmed by Xanax bone-pedaled.

An eccentric carcinogen on the wind of

the parrot's diarrhea propeller – plus other people

are yeast fused with the deep whiff.

Swarm, cloak, encrypt -

fish scales faxed individually

at high speeds.

Just count the amount of X-rays foraging at night.

Lying in a Transformer mold instilled with deadly social skills.

And so genes eventually turned out to be a parable for plastic,

each gene a sun-bleached lung doddering in

an inflatable swimming pool. 

LSD OFFICE CUBICLE

What's the two-headed mailman doing eye-fucking that un-enveloping arcade game? In a room of pure oatmeal forged from LSD, you're just so many dots and checks and stripes and vomit-colored specks nursing on the appendages of that badly patched-together Sims clown.

Part of a society of neon thumbs on the emetic disco ball prior to its slow decline in a pet cemetery as a Halloween hairball casually sleeping off its variegated scales.

The veneer of a thonged mushroom much needed by the post-apocalyptic office cubicle not too much of it else the desk might end up looking like Manga boobs on Ritalin bouncing beneath a stale weave of led.

At the controls of the vending machine a Nazi's abused foam rubber pet monkey teen heartthrob catamite just released from the same dreary office cubicle where on its desk a friendly centipede demonstrated the art of teleportation bit by segmented bit from one edge of the desk to the other while somehow managing to midway arrange a hundred tiny dirty sneakers in the shape of a pentagram in the midst of which took place a form of interspecies congeniality consisting of dust motes and blinding sparks.

Briefcase-flavored brainwashing like geriatric martial arts snorted legs first the dry psychic cyclones on the inevitable comedown hand-standing in freshly vacuumed amnesia.

SCISSOR ARM LAMPS

Bloodflow

without the electron of hygiene.

Forklift mayonnaise. Payphone as Skittle bait.

Snail jaw.

Both legs amputated,

the maid's temporary affectation

and my bathtub's beard.

And my bed.

The knitted junkyard. 

 

Hello, drunken guard dog.

My what romantic chain rust.

Your owner's trepan –

how long now has it been a portal for cat food?

'Sorry to hear that,' the cadaver told itself,

after getting a stroke.

After dithering for a spell – Sputnik rammed on the go-kart track 
by a supermarket.

By that wearer of ballet slippers.

WHEN YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT BUNGEE JUMPING

Subsequent to acting very surprised – let's say you

were actually very, very surprised – you may burp up a

little bolus into your palms. A symbolically pregnant malformation

of a breath. Then, it suddenly becomes clear that

every emotional response of the radio specter outside your window

is assisted by dark matter unfurling – a sort of tongue leaching into

the galaxy's wheelbarrow. Like a pap smear.

Your deathbed's antennae will lilt – and we might as well

have communicated with God using bedposts – your infatuation

with astronomical household objects will find a foothold

via a new type of sonar: a connect-the-numbers drawing of

a scary sex toy. But petals have built an oil drum

around your body. The woozy-looking bug on your sleeve has promised

that self-degradation would stop masquerading as suicide.

PIG

An X amount of bird

crap on the gargoyle

makes it look like a

Klingon watermelon

But if you want to

talk typical

heartbreak,

go watch

a loom flossing

Or as a Eurotrash

beast

traffic light hybrid would

put it:

wisdom teeth have no awareness

You may choose

to believe

Hasidic vertebrae

stew in strawberries,

or to think

the jaw a coaster

internet meme

The mouth: a foot spa for human remains

You may choose to

detect bath salts

in the brain

scan of a

pig

you

pig

DROVE OUT GLUTTONY

Swooning, a conduit formed by velvet's liquefaction, is enviable:

To lie down slowly in the nitroglycerine dregs at the bottom of what used to be an old lady's large brown swollen hand –

an AC's alcoholic smell

had played the saxophone;

had relieved it of scabies, until its knobs were no longer touchable

The fact that so much uneatable is addressed to your linoleum

a unicorn's comparative skill

like the scratchings in dried black syrup.

What's worse, the bubblewrap valence of a refrigerated pie

or the mortuary's pantry motif?

I SEE THE KANGEROO IN YOUR EYES

The practice of roosting, in athletic wear, resurges after a twinge of boredom. Before a sudden petrification – with Perez Hilton etched into the fathoms of gluteal resin, viscid romantic botanical bone truncated. Bloody waistcoat. CCTV magnet.

Horseshoe-shaped.

You don't mind if I call my cough an interpersonal skill? I got the chloroform handshake down pat. Poverty has bred a grungy tennis lesson, and herpes is where I drank. Tumor, you're a business meal; X chromosome, you're a squatter. Neanderthal kangaroo, YOU'VE been trapped by the riot police. With sweet words. Written about, at length, in a childish scrawl – like the variform missile fart that plastered the facade of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention. 

FLU

Don's cellulite, prefab of flu and the preatomic denim,

bronchi depastured

His fetus so engorged as to be cloven,

a divination under the drip of the Sabbath's cheesy chemical

Don can show you the octo-asparagus –

the automaton's

Unraveling rattling botulism conducting the planetarium's

voodoo, assimilating

Mars odor not just for the sake of navigation

But for the sake of getting blown

SLINGSHOT PONG

Golf balls drooled by

Goliath – before the guillotine

cured his halitosis.

Insinuation

into the scattered collective.

The iguana

juxtaposition.

Or a xylophone wanting the idyllic life of a taxi.

GANGSTER CAMPFIRE STORIES

This myth is rekindled time and time again by gangsters:

dysentery can not be computed. They don't bother

much about the fact that the limousine was

well-hung; troughed, then dislodged from

the undecaying ashtray.

An entire neighborhood once left piece by piece –

in a field they later discovered the tetrices of a felon.

Wens gravitating toward bystanders in the aftermath of a drive-by.

Today, old people swear the pee spots in their hankies

are from excessive nasal pampering.

And the moon's new beam – a walking, talking,

rollicking celebration of blocks extinguished.

TOURIST

The mime is apparently doing the bazooka-holding stance right now.

A weapon made of air – its turbine's heartburn consists

of pencil shavings. You, supermarket smudge. You, the humidity

of a nipple. On a live, televised, high-speed chase of a wandering peanut.

Oh: I've been seen in my underwear. By my pet hamster. It does

yoga, and allows me to observe its special entrails.

I call them yoga entrails.

Such care administered by the young pretty cashier on the

grinning crocodile's cut finger. Its blood drips on her hand,

and you can see now that if she were a pan,

she'd be cookie dough-resistant. A poseur's psychopathy

in the comic strip that famously featured the first

tentacle-wedgie. And Viagra that caused spaghetti to rape.

And I was sold a used breast implant by the same god

that made a special new hell in a Ziploc bag for my fish.

Asshole urine is a miracle, asshole. Hijack hijack hijack.

The mime's doing this right now; putatively washing a window.

DRIVE-THRU FOR THE BIONICALLY ENHANCED

in the context of the bathroom

blocky circulation

and space-time's URL

extremely common at the end of a sting

cognitively polyp

hitches a ride on a DENNY'S

the odor of deer in a trunk

captured on the anthropologist's

scratch and sniff field notes

holographic pizza

spongiform, the synthetic

structure of its heart attack

sample of hedonism,

birthday party,

scratch the itch of the parade float's brain stem

a drive-thru specially for the

gunslinger's disability –

for he is the lobster with the bionic shower curtain

telephonically, jelly genome

resonance, eternal

floozy, eternal

sad rattlesnake, if only it

knew what to do about the soap scum

on its vocal cord

RUBBER ERASER IN THE NIGHT TIME

recreate abduction of three ribs

in a slide show to satellite recognition in the night time

you inhabit loss

the pressure from the office fridge's

floodlit steam, where the wax figure stood in sagging pants

telling tales of a dormitory's pubic ramifications into frizz

a coiffure massacre's

Pixar visual effects worth waiting for,

he says

broaching the threshold cross-section of a nuclear fission reactor

leg's grope of neurons during the passage: your telegram's

ineffable kilowatts

reabsorbed by the brain

binding vodka

rubber eraser femoral

rubber

eraser

WARSAW VISOR

a rather dry and wrinkly flare grew from the martyr, into the sky like

a mushroom on a zombie ant's head

heaven wore an assistant's grimace, at a massage parlor when

cleaning away the oily offal

break a secret tiny bone, and it would paralyze a flea

it's wearing ginger ale panties dependent on the traction

of a mongrel coccyx - algebra coerces in mysterious ways

each employee on Wall Street is given a cute ladle

in the past they'd worn the Warsaw Visor, and

my carcass's carburettor had been soaked

something definable enwrapped, or tumbling in

the unutterable washing 

WORMWOOD

Misunderstood the mixed beauty pageant.

The mise-en-scène's nightmare shifting.

Contenders became hauntingly brain-like.

But the creep who claimed the slingshot was his only childhood friend

also tried to patiently coax a chorus of wavy filaments out of his

dog's gonorrhea with a taser.

William Shatner at one point was just a fat kid

poised before his reflection in an otherwise harmless DVD.

Could've done at least a hundred other things while

waiting on the long goop of the holographic sanitizer,

in the drugstore where I'm always lucky enough

to find a scared little tree snake behind the Oreos -

then throttling it in appreciation of its resemblance

to real handwash lotion.

Bellybutton as etymology of cyborg scalp.

The gorilla's idea of life after death: a hose's big

poop at the one end closed off by its formidable asthma

at the other.

Don't ever cut a hula-hoop in half...

Stick a thermometer into the pus of Neptune's soil.

The recurring oven mitten – and other soothing worlds

that allow you to hold them. But on this hand

seems to be a strap-on rat.

Can't set it free. We're sorry.

IN A BATHTUB FOR YOU ARE WISE

you have your

television psychic

tongue – and you triangulate

the suppository's

secret location

sugar bitter

burst the blimp

juice of

the wingnut mascot a big letdown

of course, as a superpower, iron is a big waste of time

spinach money that's

not color-coded

becomes snail shit quicker

than CSI mistakes a homicide at a sleepover

for some weird new kind of

cubism – and the metronome that constantly wondered

'what am I gaining?'

it's one badass cognitive arm wrestler!

Earth-shattering,

and so now couches are great

for something else too:

for minding your own business

cocaine using its own initiative

to blind me with

reverse cosmetics:

I'm a guy at a desk poly-skulled vomiting

an octopus that

kneels over her face,

its bathtub

quickly filling with fingernail clippings

FACEBOOK IN OTHER COUNTRIES

Farmville Bosnia and

Herzegovina cudgel, it means gilded goat cheese-guilty pleasure

Garbage outlines of Typhoid vector rune

all day with fat ink on twinkly stinky Romanian masturbatory hatshaped receipt paper

admen-anthrax with their nails, carefully plump Starbuxed

Wi-Fi croissant:

non-sacredly, but sharing latex is no mean feat on the part of jellyfish

internalized Betty Page taut across lamp shade

tenderized and Sulfur, and dull as faith and kinky as drivers license

is crack's fatal flaw: a GPS dimension a psychedelic kind of feeling terrible?

be a

OUTSIDE MY WINDOW BEFORE THE INTERNET

I take care of my pet monocle

I gather its pixels of pee with brush and scoop – part of the shocking phenomenon of a bladder growing on the whiskered tip of its dachshund moue –

Expanding to eventually take over its whole goddamn face –

my hairdryer's dark side, I won't go into it except to say,

on the plus side,

its Bosch filter deafens the user to the telephone sales patter that intermingles with and that depletes

the hot air of small fish

streetlamps emit DNA ultrasound, which actually comes from the sparklers drowning – with an unholy tingle along the thin neck of each sparkle –

in the marsh of their [i.e. the streetlamps'] genital herpes

Hate-waffle with its sensations passed on to a dog,

for safekeeping

Now simulate a loose-fitting t-shirt for us, Bruce Lee –

with the flex of your shoulder blades and the altering of your skin tone from pale Vincent Price gray to Volks Wagon yellow;

bring me a chess piece with its head cut off and beard ripped out as souvenir from your game of chess with an obsequious, thirteen-year-old Tarantino aboard the Graf Zeppelin, its alien copilot the walking embodiment of trash-talk

Then after lunch, when you're alone, in your cabin,

groom the hair-singed enamel flower of a big shit

which is your Hollywood brain damage, Bruce, by the way –

not your inherent forgotten masochism aesthetic,

electric purveyor of the light-absorbing tincture;

but the A-Team at their most palatable in the time I still wanted to be

an anthropomorphic lobotomy when I grew up;

those Yogi Bear stereotypes in the rape van; driving into the uncanny valley of a true Mobius sitcom plot-line; the phrase 'I love it when a plan comes together' a vulgar play on the original Swahili

THERE ARE MANY DOTS IN THIS THING

In the hyena's dementia lurks a saintly appreciation for

the symbolic oomph – like a Nike symbol only less angular,

and with much less paisley – of bio-luminescent potato chips.

….............................................................if there's one object

…..............................................................

that's evoked by a match of TV karate

at two in the morning.....................................it's not the yellow

…...............................................................fungal mote of my

…...............................................................coke habit

I deposit each night like clockwork into the tarantula's crayon

earlobe – it's the spitting, pinata-like object that hangs in

the shower and that I broke my leg twice trying to see if

others................like...................me.................live.............in......

…........................................it.................................

At any spectacle, you can lower a cage and quarantine all the bystanders

so they never turn up at spectacles anywhere else again. But not if

they're gypsies. Not if they're expertly disposed-of bodies. Not if they're

phantom action figures. Not if they're bit-part players in the Flintstones.

After being butchered with an ax..................................

….........................................moisture's reincarnation

as the spasms …..................................

….......................................................that make eggs so hard

to balance..............................................

….............................................................on your head................

the unicorn's mummification the spacecraft took...............................

severe measures to avoid.......................................................

by gently placing its boobs...................................................

…................................................................in aerodynamic 
...................................................................plaster casts

SEGMENTED SPIRIT ADMIXTURE

You might be standing on the bridge between

purity of density and interplanetary walkie-talkie.

You might not find it so awesome.

The digestive enzymes of the universe brought the

eviscerated mite to the forefront. Pinned to a

kitchen plank. Four pins. Mite-awful cancer up-close-fanged.

Then as you're gazing on, your thorax

pops out of your toupee – standing in stark contrast to,

but not meaning it any bodily harm, the

amusement park ride's well-advertised [with rivulets of

vagina and segmented fruit] proboscis.

I want to hear the meow in its reusable sushi flip-flops,

so I turn the volume knob of the space walk.

The building blocks of your junk will reap the benefits of

the green spirit alloy.

WERE I YOUR SCURVY YOUR SAILOR

As Euclidean tights they can only really be rocked

by Mighty Mouse. The towel empurples.

Based on the design of their runny noses, shrimps

have taught us new combinations of uses for

trumpets and porridge. Are secretly

enamored with the enema a scurvied sailor

had tossed overboard – pale pink, cracked.

Clowns who know influenza is a variant of the

metamorphosis of meringue.

Infatuation with a novelty coaster and the tailcoats

of Italian vignettes stood on by your heavy glass,

as they try to run away and in the process get disrobed.

If you could read my mind, something of you would pool ankle-deep

inside a funnel. AIDS sold to a hobo by a godlike salesman.

Ominous. The clothes rustling in the Trojan trolley:

I bet I'm in there, and I bet no one suspects it.

And I bet I'm gonna jump out and make a fool of myself.

Between the parentheses of the prosthetic brace:

the ebbs and flows of nothingness that allow themselves to be parsed.

With a ruler. A shoe. A dismembered penis wearing a shoe.

Over the edges of sorcery's paper cut-out trick of the eye,

the Metropolis's metabolic quicksilver hisses and showers.

Sleeping with a cloven mermaid. She's ambulatory.

Can walk. Learning from a shop assistant the sinful practice

of parrots – text messaging

while walking. 

 

On her deathbed sticky as a hot iron,

but beautiful as a scratch card with coin-shaped welts.

The world is not sinister.

From the front I'm operatic like treetops – from behind

I'm a food processing plant.

VIOLIN JETPACK GAS

the troll rowing team's stream

was more gravitational               playground

geysers of sleep                        snail sleep

sojourning as brittle words 
in the den of typewriter hex

to become an outer-realm jetpack

violin musters gas station goodness

My memory of post-apocalyptic sweater

the aftermath of bathing the burger effigy?

The teddy bear bacterial murder vacuum leathery in morning person-type arms

SHARING THE SAME GLANDS

Greedo hotted up

on a date fly open drunk

in a bubble bath extrapolating

this experienced based on the joys

of submerging your toe in

the noxious necrotic undead

petri dish back home

festering on the doorstep

humanoid leg humping

figure genetically spliced

with cannibal sharing

built-in oral super-glands

super-nodules built to take

real abuse from all
types of condiments

the two as one reconfiguring

their emotional connection

to gross ejected material

on chair to accommodate the CLAMP

for the CLAMP gets lonely

for it seems the stethoscope

has been hostile and mean

and now sees the shakiest tableau

only the strangest shit in the

mind of the bed-ridden facehugger

can no longer coordinate

with its limbs it is

not quite a happy stethoscope

C-3PO jerking off

with mesmerizing

speed to bright sunny

outlines of pillow

dancing salaciously on

his torso

the mindless silence

of gray metal US

military drone in Angry Birds

an entity not even part of

the same pizza topping

asteroid family but cruising

around the top half

of the screen at all times

wanting in wanting

to be accepted 

THE ACTUAL SIZE OF MY TIE

That side of the rural matrix (that farm plexus – nearly indistinguishable

from the stretch of land on this side of the fence) – is mimetic wax.

Droplets rolling down a solar panel - like the necks of Muppets

craning peculiarly – surge, and form leaning grass.

The gurgling craters in diarrhea serve as a model for the parallel

universe of suckers on my ass.

From your hair a creature arises, a creature with glowing eyes,

and raising his palm to his forehead, he says to himself:

“Paint job with fiber-optic syringe goes here.”

Doing Pilates

covered in a

resin that

is prayer

repellent.

Strange

moth

in my

Nutella –

the intensity of whose yells are measured

in Fahrenheit, the toxicity of McNuggets in terms

of glare, and Ikea:

porousness.

The average intelligence of the animals in the zoo goes into

the semiconductor, tries to escape – then finally emerge

from the loudspeakers:

as hillbilly voicemail.

Lobsters do successfully remove sleep from their eyes with their claws.

Constant pain does incubate hot dogs.

Jason goes down to the very acme of the Periodic Table, where

in an eating contest he gets his tie tangled with a woman

twice [the tie's size].

DAMNIT!

There must be a pie chart for the emotions of EVERYBODY –

not just for the few lucky jars of 
undernail collectibles 

THE NINJA AND THE POPSICLE

Back when everybody was passionately illiterate,

instead of hate mail a person got impassable kidney stones.

They were also untraversable and unclimbable.

Adding insult to injury, a despised ghost contracted

irritable bowel syndrome via a homemade, as

opposed to curio store-bought, Ouija board. Man, those

were the days ... Good, honest overuse defoliated your

toilet plunger – giving it an incredibly hot body.

If you were a surfer and decided to take up skateboarding,

your skateboard was almost sure to digest your nipples.

Dusty, crouching, sand-fingering behemoths sitting

on the sidewalks had hobbies, too: left for dead,

the potato they resuscitated would enunciate phrases of

street talk nearly indistinguishable from

pieces of the suicide bomber nearby because

their general import would essentially be a testament

to suede puke. At a Chinese restaurant, where biting your nails

would be the only item on the menu. Man...

And muscle-bound kittens hogging the karaoke stage,

until finally there was only a heap of baked cookies

presided over by a mist of ribbed, coiling headache,

would typically mark the end of a night out.

Microwaves cackled when loaded with the jewelry of

rich chicks. Sesame falling from the sky hurt

dinosaurs' eyes, eventually turning them all blind.

Dinosaur meat quenched many coffins

at the close of the Jurassic era. This one learns

in school. Sure, but in two thousand years from

now your kids are going to learn something pretty fucking

disturbing; namely, that a certain gene perverted by a combination

of pharmaceuticals would give a hermetic, mountain-dwelling

popsicle an embarrassing propensity for garish, tie-dye

hazmat suits, and would also instil in a sociable, extroverted

ninja a propensity for late-night reality TV – on which in a

stoke of fateful coincidence the hazmat-wearing popsicle

would meet the former in bloody (unfaked) combat. 

BLOODLETTING AT THE NURSING HOME

THE ENTREPRENEUR got rich by telling people to wish on a star

the way he displaced my need for therapy for post traumatic stress disorder was less lol-worthy than the means chosen by my therapist

the morning after proving their redundancy to him, he indiscriminately beat all his henchmen to death

it was probably a waste of time being East European, looking like a Cabbage Patch Kid from so much steroid abuse, and being the henchman of a self-sufficient entrepreneur

MY THERAPIST usually ordered me to brandish a squirt gun at targets set up all over his office

issuing from the nozzle was meant to be the theremin, rainbow ejaculate of VHS cassettes containing my favorite cartoons

the teenage bonobo that molested me as a child wore a tinfoil hat to prevent the projection of a spiny, curvy caricature of the utopia he imagined himself inhabiting on the smooth, unspoilt surface of the dark presence beneath the hat he apparently embodied like a thickly lacquered marionette, and is now living in a nursing home where he is constantly shunned by the residents for animal cruelty

for some reason, all his exploits are likened to smashing berries in slow-motion on Xbox Live

the process is seen in slow-motion because the horror reaches up from a deep well

and because the residents of the nursing home as a rule see everything in slow-motion

THE ENTREPRENEUR'S website implores me to find a large shrub, to wish on a star, and then to summon whatever I want from the shrub

from every shrub I have found so far, the feet of a dead body poked out

I crawl into one of the shrubs and look down:

I am a bug standing on a mirror

the thumb of my therapist, whenever he illustrated how I should squeeze the trigger of the squirt gun, was very charming

I imagined it riddled with thumbtack imprints, from sticking targets to the walls of his office all day

the thumb couldn't crush the reflections of bugs

when he wasn't showing me how to squeeze the trigger, the thumb merely lazed on its belly next to him