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