THE NEUTRINO WAND

a ghost's vein/cartilage/bone quotient is

unlike that of someone not very tall

and unlike that of someone very tall;

it is instead, as in my case, merely a pile of

veins and it moves like erect noodles and

then slows slowly to a crawl...

when the Ghostbusters are having a bad day,

everybody knows they're particularly hostile:

getting it from the Neutrino Wand is like

getting a thrashing with the Bible's jagged tail,

as it slaloms like a leathery school bus,

then crashes: you're face to face with it in a

weird, suicidal unwrapping of upholstery

the dead lives in careful, ritualistic instability

it's classic overkill, if plowing through it

with your Proton Pack creates a vacuum –

sure, thoughts in the head are captive;

sure, it's because the back of the neck is sealed

but with a fever dream's vulgar inhalation, your

machine augments our mind with a crack

foreshadowing a small ball of rot, dislodged –

a ghost's last prayer grows a pitiful carapace,

and thus seems to be embodied by a modern-day shrimp

crawls out of the crack, out of its bog nest,

merely one of many rows of bog nests; crawls out;

falls,

the mind cremated turns soggy,

some parts MAY HAVE BEEN buried alive

I peer through

where I dwell

disturbing

through the only geological friend I ever had

the ground's sarlacc-belly behaving as expected

I peer through the suck asking no one in particular

Newton, Isaac,

how could you do

such a thing?

THE FULL SWIMMING POOL

Plants. Not quite a parting of seas.

A horticulture enjoyable nevertheless

with Moses hanging out the bottom of its wave form.

He pours from the green-finger electrode, and some

dimensions crumple. Or begin to.

This show be

elaborate:

- a morphing diorama of the puffer Barbie.

Its grimace, which only by blowing outward

remains stable.

Barbie is a politician recognizable

only in caricature.

The dentist exhumes from the popular doll's molar

a prehistoric soup, and dripping it in a pan the pan

becomes flexible.

Such tissue usually remains on spikes – it's

usually

alleviated

by

inserting

a

coin.

A lunar dismantling reveals mechanical pastry.

Flavor that is subjective: a glazed wriggling.

Haired parcel. Unfragile. It quickly recovers

from the bomb within. Robotic shoulders shrug

off the sweat. Having been so introverted;

your poison yanked out of our cuddling. Morgue

atmosphere as accessory – the mortician's key fob.

Rampaging grieving reverts to steady hissing.

These are basically just emissions. Together,

it looks very different from e.g. foam. Scissors buzz

around it. Possession. The suddenly grown lovechild

is featureless. Its generator as if connected to

or mirroring dishes. The latter's boner's algorithm's

human counterpart had a snout; something in its skull's

snores as deep and wide and full as a swimming pool.

SKELETON STALKS

There is, subsequent to its circumcision,

a different levity to the lava lamp's packed organs.

Many Tetris blocks had sunk and

lain buried in the towering swamp.

It is now warm in the vicinity;

the burning is waiting. Altering your coal.

Pork snarling Buffy shiny.

Gnawed at the atlas's vinyl in

Jurassic hectares, the world's hand becoming

dogeared in stray flaming.

It's hard for a loincloth to preserve anatomy.

Harsh treatment of its stalks has

completely erased the skeleton.

Jello tucking its brown ghost into the aircon.

The cooling grid of membrane.

True blood drying on pegs.

Fillets of Anime creatures left sugar white.

In its inappropriateness as a baby's bib

my guarddog coat is stark all the way.

Front and back feeling like pairing pizzas

by a thin isthmus. A large chunk surely won't

ever find its way back.

THE FUTURE'S TONGUE

Wrinkles from outerspace are my receptor. The great ruin up there's geysers' gentle overreach. The diversity the crocodile-shift engendered below. Unusual trash. Crusting arithmetically. Our hairy bottom drawer. Sour feeding. The Oreo will disperse, if you so much as cut the cord. A molting delaying joy. Hysteria's intervals relayed. In times of shaky gravy. Shaggy vapor. The usual wild dwarf; whereas partial ham is extremely rare. Sprawling risking popping. I miss spit. The ghastly changes in the incinerator. Cutting the grass. Resolving the egg. Bunions jutting out of egg. Thin vessels jingling in egg's swastika. Today's tongue feels like deja vu. Just now's tongue floats parallel to today's tongue. As does the future's tongue. As does the future's future's tongue. It might hold my chin in. My tongue holds your chin in. I deploy all my bunions in battle. Five bunions I already got trapped in a special cannonesque vial. All anatomy serves as distraction. Connective socks serve walking. I bought a mold of a cheerleader. My sensory organs have grown into a straightjacket. A donut full of a carpet's pressure.

KUNG FU KICKS DON'T STINK

kung fu kicks don't stink

my spare innards'

rumbling's low, sideways tone

undercuts the tranquil evening sounds

of the weird paradise in the legs,

shitting themselves, sometimes, though

olfactory dye

at the bases of

each of Jackie Chan's

bum wipes, numb

embalming what's

still snapping

life bumping into fluids,

a headless lever

behind the pull on

what's still a

faceless chewing,

chopped off cavity

adult diapers

wielding a blank

slab of piss

in lieu of a plastic

bag to drain stimuli –

if Depends can even extract

muddy squirts from

a fucking shower head

exposed too long

to a demonic hollowness,

which can also deteriorate an earbud

around the earbud's

own internal spike

the universe growing itself a lawn,

a mossy pastoral cube;

keeps going inside God's

bloodstained raincoat;

beyond the embalmer's forceps

keeps its ill edge:

gelatinous sheets

with lobster seams

with a heart of

zombie pulp

beard-harvested

THE FLY – ANOTHER MUTATION

Like mind abandoning meat,

Brundlefly's crimes affected the geometric.

A cannibal for intimacy, he needed

gross bits and pieces. Some bizarre fetish, perhaps?

Actually, his first taste of mayonaise wasn't

on meat but in meat. Not his own vomit,

rather the psychedelic pus of all human parts

put together. Pain snail-footing it along in its

shoe, all that lubricated light melting around

the shoe's black windows.

On which disco carpet you really couldn't

tell the shoe apart from an ambulance,

an ashtray, or, in analog, one of Brundlefly's computer's

sentence structures, crawling, in glaucus, deep-sea

transit, a tunnel-reinventing field trip reinventing

tunnels around every object in the

disgusting bachelor’s apartment ... making it strange.

A fly suddenly goes on auto-pilot (a truly funny thing).

Driven by plain curiosity, a plant might leapfrog

off the windowsill; crushing a car below.

A small dose of sunscreen waxes psychiatric

on tan, knobbly scalp. In bed, one fat, gator clawful

of crayons messily accentuates a lover's contentment/

well-being.

THINNING DOORS

Strip-searched toasty, weather permitting. Distorted by dirtse.

Flying over the planet's coarse, dinosaur kitsch. The occasional

respiratory spark due to the extreme environment.

Horny 360 degrees.

I heard a story about plane-crash victims looking 'unborn,'

and how if you wanted to bring them back to life you

needed to restart the whole process of life, starting with birth etc.

I heard that merely by screwing an LED into Styrofoam, a skillful

alchemist can reproduce a fetus's intense nipple. Also, the crinkly

biomass of its impending vinegar, flooding.

That's how we discovered our little hero. Paralyzed aerially,

with a musical squawk. Otherwise, this microbe's being so resistant

to everything extreme = truly heart-warming. Also, on its furry BMX;

teeth gripping the handlebars. At best, adorable teeth is universal.

We became ill at the airport. Trying to break into the duty free

apothecary, we found the lock inundated by a swamp. Like any untuned

mechanism. So I said stand back, and opened the door by rolling

the lock in my mind. Delicate work, like turning the crank on

a paperclip's spine. It dissolves any interior flatness, so that it can easily

slip between two sheets of paper. Fine shit. The rest of this odd

connectivity, it's merely transmitted into the bucket in your left hand.

Like cow entrails.

The cause of all this negativity in my robotic arm, it

has to be its rootedness in ambiguous sediment. In

mall skin and mall eyes. Though one can easily start a tractor

or break a door down with it.

BLACK BREATH

virus is vegetable

dropped onto large flat button,

activates homemade wooden stripper

I squat,

chin raised

proprietorially

over scenic dysentery

yells coal's texture's smell:

i.e. breath of social network neurally, projected onto underpants;

sheet of zits superimposed over white, soft, clean tattoo

I wash, shadow drowning in kitchen sink

tank top nicely fits primate

piezoelectric V-neck makes strangling [self] easier

McDonalds gif of rather disgusting pretzel, rapping

happiness is sandwiched between voodoo doll's double chin

what paradox of skateboard has skateboard never snapping at stitches?

luckily beard

was boarded up

dry yet [in clump of syphilis snowflakes]

DIGGING UP A PUPPY IN THE BACKYARD

Finding a skull passionate about tantra.

Opening a can of brainless doorknobs.

Their screams' shredding. An

earache running across the room.

Amid their general interpersonal panic,

their long, annoying gums.

Between winching oxygen, my chest pauses.

A burst reptile, rife with ducts.

My chest shrieking sexy, something

running up and down inside, following

a pattern, something inside's attraction

to the streaks on the walls inside.

My own brain of sentient biohazard

shiny fecal crepe. Its higher regions

responsible for weaving, emotional, hybrid

puke.

My body's encounter, daily,

with a suit. Which suit my body's skin

finds slimy, but edible. My body likes

the suit, but shouts getting in and out

of it. As though choking in a tourniquet.

Shouting that it's unsafe to eat

the slimy suit.

In the backyard, my forehead

dragging pink along. Searching

for something buried. Clothes.

A whale beached on its

laundry, on the brink of complete

nudity. Surfing the earth's

nice-smelling riffles. But very

exhaustion-prone, always.

The backyard hangs from a hook.

My probing handstand. Glazing

in one of the concrete's piercings'

aggressive emission of a haunting.

The backyard's decadence's squirts.

A zombified puppy, scraping. We

meet, this fragile manifestation of knit bones

and I.

THE YEARBOOK SINGULARITY

The prophet resembles a bioluminescent Steve Buscemi. His anatomy, two inches outside his photo in the yearbook, yields something corrugated. “Refreshments will be served after the singularity,” reads the caption.

Below is the photo of a ghoulish chimpanzee declaiming something homophobic in broken, stuttery chimpanzee language. “Man-made objects branched, as they could only have branched, and as indeed they must branch, at the turn of this century, from the past decade's Victorian upskirt.”

Almost prophetically – for levels spread in relation to their connection to doors and windows, not unlike the windows and doors the various mugs in the spooky yearbook seem framed in, depths; layered holes a singularity's grave-digging nail can easily plumb – excessive foreign bodies handicap and like birthday cake candles litter the toddler in the next photo.

“I brought the wart on my cheek back to life with a wrench,” boasts the lady in the next photo, “its lobes seemingly dropkicked by a sort of splay-toed messiah.”

The MRIs of today would strain over the many tiny fractures in the skin transplanted onto the photo in the left corner of the page in the yearbook and eclipsing the unknown presence underneath, twisting with the effort of maintaining a hold, the skin's tortured leather moreover beginning to slowly turn blue as well, as a result.

And the caption grants only this clue as to what's going on beneath the skin: “The sensations in my tentacles are being reversed by black magic. Healed, as when an infectious hunger strike reaches the twin yellow horizons of flesh-eating bacteria.”

Finally, just before the cadaver claiming to be frightened of air-freshener, there's a famous rock star – “Which radio DJ's jawbone pooped these parts?” In the pantheon of common gripes, his stands in the third row from the back.

NEW MORSE

A salacious glimpse amasses cleverly into

pond scum vortices. Resorting to pig-hosing

surgically, a sort of vibrating beard on a germ's

buttock.

Responding to a poke, the silhouette boomerangs.

A weird napkin, seething. Pupates

into a giant track suit, sluggish.

Grows with the sound of something crunching.

Like hitting a fresh spot on the punching bag,

causing a bending. Ontologically teleports –

resulting in paste flopping at the bottom

of someone's unsuspecting teacup.

A hunk of rain like sweat-filled jugs

splits the umbrella. In unison, R2D2

sheds a few snot pellets, calling them

samples of his new Morse.

WEDGIE, AT A PARTY – ANOTHER MUTATION

To the things the samurai allows

to resonate, monochrome rough.

Curls for safe sex. Its weird

robotic craving self-inflicted:

like corn's grotesque middle,

a hive with zero bark.

The herd's haircut is a serious

condition...

Neutrality fell in its own trap

trying to wedgie heavy machinery.

Permeates the parking lot,

which is sticky both sides.

A hurtling birthday wrecks space.

Puked up numbing. The

TV intestinally hunched over.

A darker contagion passing through

town; i.e. KFC's alligator psyche entering

my exquisite colostomy bag.

Jerky Angry Birds fossil needs

the whole Ice Age

stuffed angrily with it, at a party.

CARBON-FROZEN ZOMBIE

guess how duck-billed bacteria compress their vomit:

additives like heavy zeppelins released with their farts

tetherball cavity on crutches

echos with driftwood ear,

impairing dreams' water

our dimension finally begins to regenerate, clown wet

ammonia smears along its mealy depths:

sauna slime is itself an animated being

a sudden influx of pig steam

laser-scratches the pizza

its whole life itching in an incubator, undead

heavy zeppelins behind the cute black seam

stop-motion exiting

thread-like growth on mechanical dentures:

ailments like undetectable limbs,

the butcher's bone retooled

to remove its own root, closes,

and during sleep looks like a space suit:

carbon freezing the remains

until their final resurrection

CRYPTO-SCARECROW

HAL was evil. He was also a sock puppet. I am going

to try and explain why he was evil. As a rule, sock puppets

are evil to begin with; but take a closer look at

what happened toward the end of the movie. Upon

being handled, the nest in HAL's mind altered,

became excited like gross floss, wriggling and hardening

into skin wound tightly around the handler's hand.

A swarm of dairy tubes, wet and yellow and busy.

As long as the soul remains unused, its rubber prostheses

may find themselves entangled in airy uncertainty.

And then you become evil.

Because I watched the movie and because I want

to keep my mind healthy and my bowels regular,

I am the only one of my friends who's into yoga.

Because none of my friends have seen the movie.

Speaking of being 'regular': weird shit happens in my

yoga class, and it's perhaps our master's fault,

who claims to be so regular as to be holy.

“Normally when beings take a dump,” he told the class,

“flies come staggering in through the stink-haze.

But when I take a dump, birds leak in through

the still, unruffled air.” To prove his point, the yoga master

had yesterday tricked a tree into standing on his mat. It stood

where he had stood, and in fact still was standing. It

looked awkward – and no birds came and perched in

its branches. It stood on buried gas. Roots coiling around

a dead baby troll. Lifting and sagging one inch every minute,

temperamental. A mere composition of weak

nervous tremors was all it was, but still.

Our epileptic crypto-scarecrow is pretty disturbing.

The most morbid part of the session, usually,

is when the local superhero who goes by the (very apt)

moniker Aqua-Chicken, crosses his legs on his mat

and rainbows complexly stain his nutsack.

I am very afraid of germs at our yoga class. There are

four porn actors and one scientist in my class. I make

a point of being surrounded by them at all times. I've put my mat

right next to the scientist's mat. While countless germs incur

serious injuries in a single porn video, not as many

bloat bloody green as in the Large Hadron Collider.

Beasts of the small world: I admit I am jealous of your evil.

It must be a blast. You must find it as fun as party blower blood transfusions.

SHOVEL HEAD

caught my bus

with its edge's face

lurking like a sticky pancake

tardy fucker

immersion's afro Mobius

done a spot on my cobwebs a deja vu

I've run, with the highly adaptable

hoof of my tail; sort of yawned

scissor-based, maintenance on

the scraps inside me via a shake

got home and masturbated

while looking out the window,

for as long as the birdbath is

wearing a bra, FHM still exists

attempting to...

smooth chainsaw incestuous:

the eerie parallels between climaxes

bug surface and pox rock

with shrimp gestures

on the scale of a shovel

YOU SHIT FREAKY SHIT

I've always been unhappy about my gym wig promoting

the vague psychiatric meatball underneath.

But my thoughts are willing to assemble an asylum from ozone nails;

I am grateful to the mutant wheelchairs, for the general

setting up of a peaceful, delightful alternate reality in which the

synapses of a gorilla may forfeit their hideous bed-smell.

A boxing glove on a spring haunts on a whim. More importantly,

it attaches to everything. It can be traced back to a larger

diversity of fish green chaos. Pee-colored mattresses ensuing

from abrupt, violent delays in the metropolis, seamless odd-shaped

blood splatter swirling weirdly in graves. When the superhero

insect-fucks the thug, the latter accepts that the former is not

removable – siphoning mauve cancer from ubiquitous pores.

You shit freaky shit while munching on the finger of doom.

You shit freaky shit while staring into the hypno-shower curtain.

CHUPACABRA STILLBIRTH

trumpet glue twist-its to the hills

lizard-thicking your angle;

the low light yearly dissects solid gum

the foil restores an object's moving,

and Velcro is grilled onto a sort of background

lunch thread using one's evil stylus

that such a crowd's poop-heap could merely [fade]

then that ribbon-monster above the gas station

chemical slumber party

[so wary of] [internal forehead] [shift!]

sliced filthy

what a strong brain's pixelated slime dabbles with

whose pouch's concept this is

when merely a maggot cloak reinforced

or a prison become pretty non-relevant?

witch-taser deformation wrestler green; skull bloat a pentagram futuristic

the umbrella's tactile feedback in a lightning storm

surgically nodules pauper hide, creating a masterpiece of Chupacabra

birth stomp

MULTI-TASKING PHANTOM ARMS

The body is a portable platform.

The roadside signs thereon are

constant phantoms. To blink at them

is to slap human eyes. Every once in a while,

a model train would be really good for the mind.

But for the majority of time the mind is a violent

video game, with something burgeoning in its crack.

Digital protozoa a doozy of a wank.

A keyboard shortcut for the solitude,

wriggling like a tumor crucified.

In a costume this ventilated, it feels

like the soft bits running from a

cheese grater in a microwave oven.

Phantom arms perfect for multi-tasking.

Diagnosis: an ogre.

My tumor can't even fail at murder-suicide.

Even while dialing, it's already bugging

the recipient of the call.