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
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