MY COMPUTER HAS A WORM

hard to undo its actually liking the fibers in my computer,

and it knows where it's going, as if it's been here before,

like a catheter turning just the right corner in the old IBM –

making having a chainsaw present desirable,

cutting the worm in half, two ends bolting blurry backwards,

a diet of bark around different honey touching. It likes rummaging

at a creepy volume, drilling, and singing, worm-

vaudeville in middle-of-the-night plasma,

in all modes after death mismatching its color to metal body

turning insides soft and leaving outsides hard,

modifying that old carrot into a leathery exoskeleton,

a subway padded until hitting the tougher head

bucket cartilages soon to become buoyant overflowing fluff

facial larvae compressing, sinuses knowing awkward clog,

as all things parasitic are propelled secretly from pockets

eggs dialed softly obliquely to eggs' own ingredients –

the Nerf ball's abstract as distinguishable from its teeth

in place of immediately transforming into the bright,

emotional arcade on a stick, for optimal disclosure wearing

on fingers the bacon light bulb, that causes an effect,

hooks a horror, fries a continuum, involves arbitrary

swarming of thought unique from supplying random access with

chopping up a dwarf, outside around among the toilet paper

refusing whatever would not load, having never known such hopelessness

yet so soft, the landing, it feels like passing from inside mice,

the worm making of its own body a noose to cancel its one

neurotransmitter pining in the comfortless unclear

IF TEDDY BEARS WERE SKINNY

see it in the shutters, with a bill gray

from catching the least moonrise

old, thrumming in Parkinson's glade

with a bit of zoology escaping to

fill bras' extra bit of space

her noise's influence on its bazaar

a mineral growing on the handle

Houdini's leash baked, an Oreo cramped

by the tumor watered

muzzle time and it would start

dry-humping the double helix

erecting the ultimate sexy Frankenpinup on the wall

smoking cigars adjacent to the pajamaed shark

Spider-Man still trying to counteract

the fizzing power-can left at JFK

he's a bit bouncy over harsh slunks

humanity fuels the papaya in me while

an era's nightsweat bakes

on the fender of the meat truck

giddily yumming in a ditch

this is the dark ventriloquy finally awakening

in Google's larynx a new sensation nods

peace crabbed Tupac skinny

for it was the teddy who was capped

EMERSON'S HANDKERCHIEF

In a diarrhea of fingerprints, teenagers of the Bible Belt text.

Quilting chromosomes from a mere stupid sentence

into sushi drift – a fatty smudge that blinds the metal detectors

hoary old men use to snoop for NASCAR wrecks in the marshes;

magnificent beasts dragged out on clotheslines.

Preceded by a hovering gramophone, guiding him with

insect prods to the local inn, the Sith stomps through town ...

by now the local pervert, notorious for his Power Point presentations

of motel skeletons hitting each other to pieces with a sledgehammer.

Morally an otherwise neutral topic; but the sound seeps through

the walls and seems to be attracted to peanut butter, becomes

one with it, and it doesn't rub folk right. Pond outtakes that

taught Emerson how to love his handkerchief – how to properly

use it after breathing ridges into his wax. Bog serum on your sandwich

after a scare like that, the new splatter that could've done a

pharmaceutical storefront whorly of funk.

He and Elmo shared a hairdryer, which bubbled mesmerizing

in the tub and whose blast exposed stickers on their faces.

Elmo noted how staring into a mirror was like

posing a tin upside-down; Emerson explained how to

carve black straw from a nun, her speaking thereby alternating

from a roar to a helium rustle; meanwhile a tiny yellow airplane

outside was spraying some bloodthirsty insect repellent –

turning everybody pale; the town's only Japanese inventor

was demonstrating his machine to a small crowd,

a computer that could do martial arts, its rural script

paving a fifty meter-long strip of dirt with one, subtle ankle.

SEWER FILET

one of the rugs holds my haze, not yours

ragged and dense and high and flat and splayed,

anchored to the floor by a near-dead dog's

longballs bobbing in the room below

unsaid shoe beheading on

a different lawn, in the time it took

to die into a cusp

our community is taking away less

and less, lets the sewer age into its own filets;

socially incorporeal in the same particle

is the most squid for a jumpsuit

there's an odd little fire on the mines,

tungsten in terms of closet air

pelvic in its incorporation of a street;

I like that I sign luridly before glancing by,

I wanna try a council block irreversible in the nose

if runny fails, dumb will handle the pressure

the motion simultaneously stops the unidentified

object bouncing on the bed,

until about the point at which, later in the episode,

sort of mixing with it, the ceiling grants us

the full ebay version of a context

we're generally, after every episode,

' - did which of the perpetual motion machines

this time slip in bird shit?'

KARDASHIAN YARD SALE

there's nothing wrong with

an Ephemerol baby training

its mental ice-pick on Mickey Mouse

– watching him go ball-shaped,

fractures in his black drywall

spitting and slingshotting –

any amount of decay tucked around

hot beer-vacating nano-cannons

at the frequency of a broken Santa lamp

and a hoarder's psychedelic candle

there's nothing wrong with tearing your sheets

between your legs in front of a specific part of dinosaur 

the noisy wart not scary on something like a Kardashian

trying to build their own porno “chair scene”

imprinted on our ears e.g. the demonstrably

nasty tone of the yard sale rectum

a toggle for easier operation

REANIMATOR – ANOTHER MUTATION

rot coils

inappropriately

after so long

on a shelf

a cogged corpse

of wooden &mdashes

hanging, I rather think

flopping around

after reanimation;

certain pieces

must go back to

the jar

I farm where

others do funerals

they ought to

donate more!

my entertainment unit

used to be

a robot snake

in a milk crate

that's all

it frowned all the time

& became depressed

even while guiding

one's soldering iron

over its belly

it tried to show appreciation:

a sack listlessly

remodeling itself

like a grimace

grafted into a

towel

it has passed away

I'm still going on

the concept of heaven

and God: bending

MY CAT'S SANDBOX, BROKEN

when I blink, said blink is offset toward the middle

making the blink look a bit misanthropic

I have accepted and embraced this phenomenon, as

I have my dementia, which is exactly there

where I rest my right knee

this might be related but it might not, but I'd also

begun to stroke my cat's sandbox – in time,

I'd broken its sandbox atmosphere

and plus into the bargain, the infinite broke,

in a gaggle of spasms on a tether

a sneeze pushed to the back of a windsock

a brawl in a bar, a layered, accumulative transvestite

I sat watching it and being part of the layers and

enjoying myself, feet clip-clopping on the floor's

absence of space, absence of floor, which was

littered with traffic info, still, neon green heads up display

for a true pilot of his horse-drawn spaceship

WHAT DARWIN WOULD THINK OF THE SIMS

contrary to the split in my cold

gallows delivered the honey hole

a lick excerpted from the legless middle-face

a structure buffeted by textures of corn field

shades come adrift in gore's own valve; 
everything in the crypt's layout drops 

I cut my finger whilst tapping on the gears of lunch inside my mouth, twice

floss lurching; what very thin backs they have

the phenomenon we want drain-dyed, hanging over

scarecrow shoulders because of X dosage

junkie, stay tuned with your cane

everything on the weather channel is your fault

quick, that tornado, catch it with your elbow

a person with junk breath knows this:

he's going to be selected out; isolation's projector

sticks a certain type of rain to the dirty ceiling, in chunks

the apple we make to Pacman nine parasites

instead of grope the walls to evade them

its portrait arises in hot grease, blaring from a

headless cardigan; the plastic on the inside is cheap

Darwin would be impressed by the “old-computer” falsehoods

twitching on the floor like doormats; he'd host every event on

the Sims while concomitantly, in his old man disguise, playing

the bus wanker

YOU CAN'T TASTE WITHOUT SWALLOWING

before the occult outhouse, your senses may topple

how much love exactly is rubbed in an avalanche of lice?

whose volume, in that event, is refreshing?

doesn't it sound as old as the constant clanging of a blackhead discharging?

you can't taste without swallowing 

before exhuming the demon, the water looks creepy

water couldn't be made to wring out the drowning

or the loose, damp spot above a stolen organ

get used to the plaster's involuntary reflexes

although it took place under suspicious circumstances,

since the organ replacement the marionette has been voted

the most loved person at the party, hiding its scar

underneath its rape cape

a critter grinning with small teeth the whole time at a party

it's assimilating, you just don't notice it

THE SANDMAN – ANOTHER MUTATION

The eye glued itself to a spoon. It felt as closed

as an anvil, yet when lightening struck the eye

its entrails were protected by Faraday's effect.

The spoon kicking up reflections; the brain rudely

photo bombing each of these reflections.

The brain in these violent, intrusive instances looked

like a car wash sponge in which a small tree was planted.

In the tree in the sponge a fish hook was hooked,

in the bark, ingrown, its entry point surrounded by gnarl.

The tree was meant to be pulled up out of the sponge

by this hook. A sacrifice.

The night sky outside the window behind the sponge

was silver. The stars weren't stars. Arguably the

solar system's twinkly braces marked a new stage in its

ongoing identity crisis. In another sense, it was

trying to disguise its hatred. Which was uncalled-for.

It need only have kicked us in our beds. An interstellar

tendon could've merely swiped across the sky like

a watermelon's peel. Changing the particles we slept on.

Debris suddenly rectifying themselves. Roadkill stirring

on a fluctuating crosswalk. Becoming something new

after spiraling. Multiple jujitsu.

THE PHOTOCOPIER AT THE OFFICE WHERE I WORK

I was making photocopies at the photocopy

machine at the office where I work and

the fringe of an innocent bystander's hair

ended up getting photocopied.

Anything placed

in the photocopier's jaws

appears to be

given a blow job, even the side

of someone's head, even

a toenail. Even a person's privates.

Regardless of what's placed

inside. When something is placed

beneath the photocopier's lid, it is easy

to imagine the burgeoning simulacrum; 

but molten. It is easy to imagine the

photocopier sopping up soy sauce.

Magnetic hormones loosely orbit a central

tastebud. A mossy caduceus.

Antlers grown by a cybernetic tele-knoll,

extruding in larger quantities, renewable.

On paper, a wig manifests; its

thousand-year escape velocity is also fungal.

Colors boasting a lady's make-up's

magnificent hill hold. Tracks left in

direct sunlight.

The photocopier at the office

where I work is an upside-down, frizzy,

perhaps carbonated, lawnmower.

It can produce a severed piece of polystyrene.

A pavement, slightly acidified

by its urine, will be neatly

canned by this lawnmower.

It's not good for the ears.

It sounds a bit lecherous.

Like an hedonic hairdryer.

All my coworkers commiserate

in their varied ways, secretly at night,

when the halls are empty, with

the photocopier...

Other stuff falls out...

“So this must have fallen out also,”

my coworkers are forever muttering,

sometimes holding up a VHS tape.

Something inside the VHS tape

slides from side to side.

These objects can accommodate egg yolk.

Often, the contents have been

harvested from rat poison. But they

are still environmentally friendly because you

can't open or break the objects.

Their surrounding enamel quietly and

confidently idles.

VEGETABLE BURP

the monitor is still full of

unwanted data – Where's Waldo

in its glaucus depths?

I can only smell him,

his passive aggressiveness

still perpetuating the

smell of grass,

or is the monitor just full

of grass?

that's him talking to

the drug dealer, which

other than sitting

on park benches behind

enormous newspapers I

know he finds soothing...

I see the lone, striped,

bespectacled, behatted,

bearded, tentacled speck

neutral data can be

that inflammatory, knots in bones

and Ebola doodles goaded

out of flesh; nevertheless,

it all dissolves quickly upon a

bad landing

slayed like a slug,

UFO molestation

of a slug, rendered into

a great noirish, hand-shaped

cactus

the sort of veggie which when

landing from a great height

burps, and emits intricacies -

more than just a

squelch

the glassy run-off of

a TV ad, like

a sinister streak

in the mirror, computing

something somewhere behind

there: coordinates

that's where the planet is:

this planet, though [...] had been

almost too far to reach

and now I can't find

weed anywhere...

sleep eventually deposits its sadness

into the apparatus, the pillow

of sad sounds, vigorous FM hatched

by lower cement; falling

voices

voices then suddenly promoted

by the room's hidden fan's

consistent swipe

at every bit of air

I'm still watching porn;

but have learned in the meantime that

the dino-dachshund has been fired

and now the mouse's

hairy balls are instead being

pimped out

the deer recycled

into my personal robot

welding the aneurysm

with the suck and putt

of a steady stream of bugs,

the Milky Way a modular monstrosity

now sagging a little,

in parts

Jesus sitting somewhere

up there on electric furniture

commonly used only

by the Borg

my sink flush with oblivion,

combined with a dangling spine;

Jesus blocking

the magic like a

villain translating impurity

into rapture

CLAMS!

for a moment there, slime gained sentience

bobbing up and down, stalking

eager faces on long necks

I've seen its application in soap operas

smiles initiating their dental outer layers

these are mere consumer products, hungering

e.g. in a hardware store: things the

rake finds appetizing

cloaking a jagged projection

with one's skin – can you see with it or merely smell?

is it a nose attached

to the back of the eyeball?

in all soap operas a character falls into a coma

contorted into a shape

with hips higher than knees

a rusty thimble coming loose

in the subject's coma, its head

up a fat locust, its head wrapped in a swarm –

part of the brain seems to be a murky blowtorch,

growling, lithium on some long wire

or other implement

the sides of the chemical do grip;

in the middle a spray always resides

a space-autopsy of our zeitgeist

slush on a book's floor

words engulfed in fertilizer

turning a page is like

gauze falling flat out of the sky

in soap operas, one learns about ways

to make your spores dazzle her;

drunk on linoleum sundaes

with chicken movements shaking one's restraints

GREEN TOAST

the smell causes a surgical mask to pile up tiny

the carcass, exploding,

gives things – an accurate use of release

onion ozone

and

garbage soda

nipple microbes (typical ward merchandise)

and

a symphony of

pouches

and a new meaning to the green effigy

hanging in an atheist's refrigerator; the big door before which

we all stand is so cruel, on the one hand, its ambiance reminiscent

of a vanity mirror, on the other,

insect-fucks blipping throughout the whole of

its garden, the body – decaying – an aphrodisiac sticking

toothpicks into insect abdomens

the chatter sounding like SMS rocks boxing 

their little megaphones shaping a closed environment;

an itch blows through the corpse

that's the start of the hobo's perfection

his hologram finds harmony in hanging off a city's building's branch

knows it's an accident waiting to happen

a river spilling its remains

into a shopping cart, uniformly,

adherence to

the safest treatment of a soul

self-automating

operator

in collection mode

reaches a kind of homogeneous toast, a possible beach,

a forecourt

A CHICKEN IN MY FILING CABINET

What I think, usually, when looking at my filing cabinet,

is feed the machine

the near death state of its stored life

there must be a trick to its continuing glaze

what's it – milder rose hair?

there are slits in stars

the juice around my Betamax's crusting loops

of their lifespans, I think vibrating

with mitochondrial circulation

draped plankton scented

a glitch in the toy deep down

your mantis took years picking its way out of Walmart

but my chicken had literally time traveled out of there...

its butt's googly central eye

the rest of its body plus the antenna misinterpreted as

looking well-proportioned only on comic furniture

remember: the traumatic negative placebo

hunter raisins crawling up paper

this is the war's new face passing beyond the beyond

housing a sprocket's personality trait

breaking, and with a gesture holding shut the speed of light

Tron's biofuel hacked out of the old lady's backyard

one dollop of it sparged

over the heart

a spring can slow you down

it nests so frequently

HAVE YOURSELF A WHALE OF AN AFTERNOON

its frozen wax had over a million years evolved into a scowl

other people did notice me chewing on the iceberg

it had almost drowned once, but then was quickly patched up

its cells only fit by giving them a heavy slam

aluminum embryo inside, whose dreams are boring

its dreams' vague, seamless glut

doddering in a phlegmy graveyard

in the night sky's frame things brightened up

auxiliary doom: one rare videotape of a comet's caroming

a comet can be quite eccentric - and deadly - if it doesn't get its 
trajectories exactly right

i.e. a stegosaurus following the yellow brick road;

its nose's smell poised above the unobtainable air-freshener

the stegosaurus's hard-to-reach neon collarbone gone stale w/

much of its color/odor squandered

you need an afternoon of like-minded whales

the nation needs Jerry Springer digging flea poop

out of one of those phallic pots:

the triangular downpour would wipe out his small audience

I have never sat in certain armchairs before

I have never been part of a live/undead studio audience

my spinning, leaking ego's logic needs looking at

its bubble is stuffed

a freak gerbil wheel of bladder lapse

THE HYENA WASHED OUT OF THE HOUSE

The hyena's eyes' glare

composting in their bottle caps.

Hyena waffles.

The chain in its hair appears diffuse.

The animal is a soft, domesticated animal.

It has a waterbed's soul's million

honeycomb puddles dog collared.

It's possible to drain the waterbed

by combing it with a comb. Such that

its schematics begin to

slowly dangle.

The hyena towed away

by this transfiguration.

Spilled out of the house

when the waterbed pops...

In a context preceded

by a context in which an arm

lay on the floor. The lady, who had

squeezed her unconscious

information's supports, its mundane

props. A staple of therapy

hardware. 

 

Xanax-perforated or on

the new version of

domestic surge: e.g. lasers?

The stairwell had collapsed.

Other things also need

to be pumped up again.

Made pretty.

If you're doing sorcery

with a box cutter,

give yourself more

photogenic gills.

Unlimited R.I.P. to those

dead around you. Unlimited

air, replicating death's lungs'

lips.

Breathing not like

spooning each

breath with

splinters.

With cramps

lending traction

to our prehensile ghetto-parts.

The butcher's torso

hinging on his dirty apron.

One rarely uses

the internal intergalactic

unconscious, other than by

circumventing it for fun –

magnets dropped into

tiny imperfections.

Cobbled together

from clockwork. The

sofa blossoming again.

Like salad transmitted into

sweatpants.

The gutters fixed.

The animal impounded.

The paradox of organs –

the rules of their union

hold up under the fiercest

scrutiny. Your, my, everyone's

tonsils and shit, bound by rules.

METASTASIS

hips susceptible

to clustering

their gross harvest,

merely by pulling

up a chair

mistook oddment

for body part

the rubber

eraser

splits hair

in nasal three-way 
with Scooby-Doo

and the wearing of 

an ethereal helmet

gene sparkler

souvenir

when Gatorade's white

trash yin yang

heartburn

dispensers

and Eastern bloc

kiosk's douchenozzle overlapped

evacuation

via a cough

[having gone]

unnoticed

[too], the

shrink-raying of

a pigeon

Snow White's

peeling decals

amid

horrible pedicure

metastasis

my khakis'

nerve gas

sprinklers

i.e. occult livestock circus taint

washed in

production of

its own yellow chemical

calculation

of a legend:

anonymous

stool

my Segway

overreacts

to the roach it

feels like being

crushed under

something shaky