THE SHEET

The sheet marks by contact with other areas of the same sheet.

It is metamorphic not because it is sensitive or marks easily;

it just has that kind of peculiar irreversible elasticity.

It can be rolled into soulless barrels of cattle.

It can rear up at passing ankles in the anatomically correct guise

of Garfield. Or a battle mech.

I am highly suspicious of it.

The sheet crystallizes when I pour Kool-Aid over it, the latter

slaloming through cartilaginous termite mounds sprouting up all over.

The sheet has begun to talk to itself. Muttering something about being hungry.

I give it a burger. I hold the burger in my hand a while.

I am so aware of the sheet's focus on the burger. If I were to stretch

the sheet and bring a scalpel to it, would it noisily ricochet

against my hand? I turn my head and follow its gaze back to where

the sheet is identifying something other than a burger, something

devoid of movement, even in my shaking hand. But it is a burger.

FORENSIC YARDWORK

Who can fuck up any honest depiction of a pretty girl

picking bones from a hot cooked fish with her fingers?

For instance the squelch you're hearing – is it actually from

the wooden propeller that's manifested itself in your awareness?

I smoke too much pot to be able to distinguish between the

squelch made by the palms of those gathered at the scene

of some crime or by a farm tractor given an industrial emetic.

For scientific purposes, Mothman lets his dust devolve into

mere mounds. And with me, the doctors almost sewed on

a complete different tail because my parents almost didn't pick

my tail because it was the runt of the litter.

Stage magicians replicate these events all the time, and at the end

reverse-shunt modeling glue through their invention.

Dark and evil forces almost bullied me out of having this

tail, now.

But I am not sufficiently thankful: I still wish I could form myself

into a monocle hovering above a flea's gaping butthole.

Endlessly, I know, that image would nurse a propensity for spitting

right through me. The damburst's vectors align and flies fumble in

the dark trying to find the hole – trying to nudge the gangrene

more dated. Suffusion as trademark aesthetic of a fungus. Rubber as

adaptation to alienation. Don't magneto up close. Ebola is not irresistible.

The truth is, the wholesome, excitable electromagnetism in

pawn shops lets a part of you paddle around, systematically.

You'd be surprised at the least convenient thing Julio Iglesias

ever mounted – that which doesn't fail to manifest is, he'd found,

as mantis-chested as daylight.

SLOW WHEN DISTORTED

Tracing a steak's journey from the eject chair into

being something floral, that poses unbroken except

for a broken back.

The way everyone stays safely visored behind

anything deforming its colors back.

Or rotting its rat a membranous velor.

Just in the normal course of need, wheeze from

spitting too much radar. On the leaf so many

bloodsuckers forge from commonalities

they themselves are leathery to – to, when naked,

represent the ultimate ghetto of the

Grand Guignol tangible.

Dragons scrape behind the processes,

like chemo flitting through a lot of rare Santa beard,

haunting the instrument a narrow junkie's bum

is needed for. The culmination of kitsch

plastered corpses closer up, and callower than expected.

No rush at all, human head.

Now that the place has been caught distorted.

WHITEOUT

Unlike most people, I actually like our local grocery store's

association with offal. Couldn't get the plague mobile

so my feet cured themselves on rakes. I also like

Bed and Breakfasts. I'll check with friends if double-sided

adhesive tape is similar in outline to how I make my bed.

DIY stands for reinforced spore, because we're creating.

Full rotation of the switch passes unexpectedly beyond

spastic lemon. Survival by going limp in your arms.

Quite antithetical to its usual, odd lotus. Before inception.

Before the pump added such a horrible style to yoga.

A relic of tie-dye medical bills goats into a lover's knot.

Cautionary slush: what a good shit functions as.

Neutral, then paranoid. Then promptly enfolding hell!

The hunter had fallen for a diorama of Bambis

reverse-engineered from chemical yawning,

like a supercomputer throwing up a motherfucking beach

from low grade tea optics. During this interlude, he

said, I shall excuse myself in the most offensive – but viable –

manner; I shall turn off the street lamp to uglify it and

everything in its path, every half or overdeveloped mosquitomoth

on its mind. Don't you like your local natural history museums

natural, son? I.e. unencumbered by the usual plasticity?

Then you'll love the Loch Ness monster as he's actually just

a 10 gallon tank, missing a cap. Are you disenchanted by your

local car wash? Who would you most readily obscure with

whiteout?

COTTONMOUTH (SPACE, PART II)

A gingerbread man zoomed past every half an hour on the

conveyor belt. The last one had sodomized the adjoining

10 yards of nothingness with slow urethral steam. Space/nothingness

replied: from the serrated trunks of black speech bubbles,

quasi-verbally, bulbs leaked. Space should rather be on board

a space station. There, there is real cottonmouth, for space

holds on to any hair and small particles. There one has absolute

control over scratching one's own ass. In space, farts become opium.

There, there is enjoyment of resistance to erosion. McDonald's loosens

surplus promotional material from formica. One limbo per egress.

Craw, instead of something wearable. Medical center chic.

The impersonal unopposed to the personal.

NASA'S COLORING BOOKS

Weirdly, NASA's latest training program introduced coloring books

and found the three-toed paw of the chameleon underlying

each astronaut invariably transmits to the remaining corpus

the texture and color of “burnt-out bath salts.”

Astronauts appreciate the worst parts of (even the most

tragic) coloring books. The bubbling skin of a

toy action figure exposed to radiation

is colored in with the loving, doting peck

of perfection's chicken beak.

They treat each pencil as a bone saw.

They treat each line as a marking they'd

made themselves with a sharpie.

Space is toneless to an astronaut.

Anything that separates its pieces from

the center outward is indifferent to adhesion.

Does this strike you as a happy place?

Well, it is.

Ever heard the sound of an astronaut lost in space's

self-satisfied smacking of lips?

KING KONG – ANOTHER MUTATION

I find King Kong to be so great. The long rubber glove of

dawn inverts orange fingers all over the grass simply

when Kong moves out of the way of the weak, distant sun.

The whites of his eyes fragile against the lid's wink, clunky.

Old movie-prop yolk like Pringles breaking past the pupil,

i.e. a brown elephant rib in the middle of the glass eye

shaking off after-shadows gray-haired and diminishing

in the incoming stream.

Back at the studio's warehouse, they'd reclined the large disembodied

tongue in a trough of bacon fat. Live electrons came out of their hiding

places to visit it. So a movie prop tongue like the one used

in King Kong could be a true monstrosity: a taste-nest of thimbles

somehow given to expanding and contracting when touched,

mechanically. The tongue couldn't possibly think: “I am a reasonable

stone.”

Kong's roar supposedly always comes from a tape recorder

although I think it comes directly from the beast himself.

THE HOBO'S LOAD

A sneaker extracted from dogshit

and placed on the pavement

beside it represents an important

'un-jamming,' i.e. an important transition from

being embedded in a mound of excrement to

the actual resulting (planned?) sneakerprint.

Contrariwise, from skeletal negatives spills

the unthinkable smoothie. I want

my girlfriend to be like that.

Silver vaporized shouldn't become his breath.

A fart, if utilized to make an impressive entrance

or to conclude a speech or to guide a courtship,

shouldn't be apt to disrupt the office,

home, park, museum, moon, sitcom,

the daily quotidian goings-on of Jurassic Park,

the bath, loft, Russian, egress. Bringing

your dirty dish abreast of my skull sensor

made it immediately emotional. The basketball

team thumbed the gymnasium floor tepid. Slurged.

To the floor, it was like being slathered over with sand.

Shadow-washed hands have their evil instinctively

on repeat-wring. Rabid heads farm the hobo's load.

Would it raise the yellow hairs on his arteries?

In the box of bacteria he keeps beside him, would gales form?

An electric wheelchair runs literally till there's no

floor anymore for it to run on.

I'm starting a general purpose cliff face.

MADHOUSE TV

The drapery deteriorates

exactly around the poltergeist.

The incarnation in situ.

Partial invisibility makes scariness;

scary, old-lettuce angstroms

reverse crawling

while nosing forward a little

make partial invisibility.

A cough happens in the crypt.

It has been itching

to do that.

The sound of rubber bands snapping

fills the corridors of the

madhouse at lights out.

Last night the monitors showed

a ghost; tonight, a gun store robbery

in time-lapse. On

the monitors,

many moon-sized craters

interlock. And fuck.

APOCALYPTIC ALLEY CAT CHRIST

one hemisphere of the Big Bang came off

taking on the excretory arc of a bullet wound

and dogshit yellow pollen exploded in the nose

communities later forming via conduction of silicone

into another dimension, that of the dark side of a burning

building, where the apocalyptic alley cat christ

blinks its green eyes with drapes of sauna fuzz

there aren't really people in this community:

loops of fly paper jostling for position simulate I'm

not sure what body language or why

but most mornings there is usually a loud clunk

when my hologram is checking itself this way and activating

and in trying to say good morning it instead releases

smog from a Ziploc bag as a likeness of its voice,

slick and distant, more like an infomercial voice-over

explaining how narcissism holds our failures not

in the way dissection makes a piglet look alive,

and the neglect of grooming self or self's hologram

engenders a hard exterior cast

2 trillion zillion years later my hologram is still alive and trying to

make sense of this magazine in its lap and its airs of concentration

are gruesome, somehow, one hand holding something moving

towards it (i.e. moving towards the magazine's spine) and it's

as if the awareness of this movement and awareness of the hand's

contents – a generic office stapler – come from the hand itself and from

the stapler itself, a likeness of a voice saying in my hologram's head:

this stapler really needs to think or pause decorously a bit before feeding

as in where's this thing's manners

many gazillion years later, my hologram's corpse leaves a lot of waste

graveside and vultures of the future are useful in imparting to this waste

a lighter, albeit slightly drab tone, which reconfiguration and change of

general gestalt graveside of the waste is not as cute as e.g. my

hologram's unexpected volte face some trillion years previously

coming up from the basement with the proverbial hat in hand

begging my wife (my actual wife, not my wife's hologram) for a

headache pill as banging on pots and pans and other basement 
unwantables down there every night in an attempt to simulate the 
haunting of a poltergeist has inflicted on the hologram, i.e. on the 
hologram itself, what amounts to a pretty bad headache

TUNING FORK

down some lizard-way for adding wattage to the tableware, boosting time
in the broom closet a few surfacings north of some really, really rough dry cleaning, so I can show you my belly's equatorial vents to show you how it does its mumblings, with a tincture to stop wormsong clotting, umbilical hydraulics recommended to keep its snorts cosmetically stuck, for more bass, thenceforth tactfully putting off the trajectory of its abortion

meanwhile the slouching figure of your uncle interrupts the radio's evomition with onset scarecrow, which interruption's death/bird-underarm odor relates custom-made to every angle of the radio's respirator, a circus syndromatic imp caught in a fish net, your uncle's head burns, trying to move towards the radio's grille and crawl in to use the earth as ersatz bubble wrap, planet-induced lesions, the pauper's classic outer layer...

“no long wave - can't listen to me cricket!”

meanwhile in the broom closet gears grow square in sturgeon fat chain-smoked

into just another familiar cycle of organs quaking in arousal's prolapsed bean, acting like the nurse would amputate its prehensile Martian sauce, the one so clearly built by its own aesthetics, unknown parts' curvature revisited, apart from the one I listen to most frequently with the fork of suspended animation

TRY TIDE

I'm one of the few microbes in the bathhouse whose underbite betrays intelligent introspection. I'm beginning to think that homicide cloys. It creeps all over you. When you try to shake it off it merely forms a raised edge, then settles again. Commences creeping again … Homicide is acrid. It is the splat that just does not blend in. It looks a little unused. Everything around it seems healthily used. You can tell when something is unused because of a black grain of sand sealed in. It stays the same age. A blowfish wanted to remain the same age and to that end ingested industrial fertilizer and now sports an off-color scrotal coxcomb. It had gained no extra powers. The little girl who served the soccer mom Tide from her lemonade stand did inadvertently impart a horrific power to the soccer mom, by giving the soccer mom Pink Eye, actually the Tide she ingested did, which she'd bought from the little girl, with which she's 'panning,' quite brawnily, not looking in the normal sense but sort of roving, the eye does, in its pink rim, and tearing objects free of their natural platforms when the Eye passes over them. It must close. Then open again. Waking is mending.

HUMAN SHIELD

My mouth creatures an Oreo. The struggle of crumbs totally

soaked, to tiptoe out along horned, Predator-style

mandibular cantilevers while meeting my girlfriend's parents

for the very first time. In hindsight, after getting to

know them, I wouldn't have as luckily escaped mummification

in our conga line mid-fisting had I not inherited my grandma's

hydroelectric genitalia. You can see why rain is actually a

waste of water.

I wouldn't want to ever meet my doppelganger: imagine you're

a midget, you've got green skin and pointy ears

and walk with a cane and wear some ratty burlap coat

thing and speak backwards and work at the

movie theaters; imagine yourself meeting motherfucking Yoda, and

imagine you both comparing assholes and being generally freaked out

at the difference.

From the mountain bike's G-forces a nameless, unspeakable

evil turns cartilage sullen, like the way it looks, on

its bike, racing down alleys and hiding amongst trashcans

and as we're shooting at it, me and a bunch of other cops,

it's grabbing for the nearest clump of shit to utilize

as a human shield, and its claws grapple with discarded

lettuce and pick out a little pupa which the clawed evil entity

steals from the pupa's mother's loving embrace, with its claw,

and which it puts on its own back (the evil entity does) to act

as a human shield. Any - rather ductile and destructible –

wad of rubbery biology that can serve as a human shield which

blasted down, and which the more we shoot at it, looks more and

more like a dude on a couch, watching TV, in fact glazed in such

blight from watching TV all day as to actually more resemble a

lost meteorological figure.

I wish the shanty convenience store hadn't been remodeled

into a big, vain robot staring the whole time at

its own reflection in a metal detector, he with the

heart of a hedonistic personal computer,

decoder of typo-strings and fan mail diagrams,

cruncher of things – lathered sometimes into a

numberless froth – but maker of exact folds and creases

in the more well-worded fan letters.

TERMITES

We dropped some shopping on the lawn.

We bent to pick it up. I put on some goggles...

[2 hours later]

I am back thanks to our lawn's twice-hourly regurgitation.

Kneecaps unrolled in the remaining green bloat.

'What happened to your goggles? What did you see?'

'Your brain, seeing what I have seen, would agglutinate with your goggles.'

'What did you see?'

'I saw the … I saw the termite queen sucking off your lollipop.'

'...'

'I saw the hornier and hoarier of the older termites slop around her.

I saw termite paralysis. I saw the termites waiting for the lollipop's

sherbet's requisite exudation.'

'That's disgusting.'

'It was a new queen. They were training her.'

'Poor thing.'

'Your lolly became detached form its stick.'

'That's what the lollies I like do, rather quickly, unfortunately.'

When something becomes detached it doesn't mean

that thing's going to become totally imperceptible in

the debutante termite's transparent new centrifuge.

The slurring would eventually grant a realization – 'they like me'.

Masticating the overhang opalescent. Girdling

dispelling smooth candled jangle.

I am still sitting on the lawn. My brains are still behind my goggles.

My dog would now approach me, happy.

When happy, my dog is dog-eared.

Ensconcing his head now

to thenceforth flap kindly

over my shoulder.

Hello, boy.

I was under the ground man but now I'm back.

WAR PARODY

Passing ships slow down a

shark's piss. A drafty concavity is

now where this sudden shyness

maces the shark in the so-so!

When giants fuck, it's like two

damp people amid the consortium

of fearsome limbs.

One always adjourns web-footed

and one's cigarette holder has an inbuilt

tremolo. Awesome smoke. Suave

snowshoe. Thud.

I'll build you a dinosaur theme

park in exchange for your minerals.

But World War II was a war.

Germane to our apprehension for the

moonlit realtor. World War II was

a parody of his property hard-on

dismembered down to a filigree.

TOFU

I'm learning to play the organ and I'm sitting

next to our church organist and it's a funeral

and her headbanging is affecting and

though she stamps her feet like one would tousle a bear

the pedals remain unscathed and in the church organ's notes 

is a breathable cork snuffed by a yellow lip 

then released in an unclothing of yeast

I always suspect the intelligent plotting of a freak accident

today's drama: the mourners antiquating and

cup-rattling later in the anteroom and talking smack

about barber sticks and barber sidekicks

and death by razor!

today's news: the bullfrog pallbearer is a new father

and the priest's walkie-talkie computerizes his kisses stale

and the church organist is like a discrepant spoor on a trapeze

and those horrible surprises when you get tofu instead of antimatter

TECHNOLOGY OF TODAY

We believe our cistern has worked on its own renewal

over the years. It is callused purposely to look at.

At night, in the wee (hehe) hours, grimacing our condensation

bowlegged. Its infantry of cogs and pulleys plumbing brown

twilight further afield. You'd want the warmth and comfort

of silence, sectioned only by housecreak and bugpath,

but a few feet away on the bookcase – there also stands our

phonograph. Its whinny doles out a neural swearing of frostbites,

totally corrupting the chronology of our few remaining old cells.

Our joints are specialized for a weird, cruel fable.

My old wife and I think in the end our parts would form the

vividest parts of nature. Bullshit. Technology's parts would.

And then one morning it happened: our cistern together with our

phonograph ran out into the traffic, flailing-armed. There, they

found an ideal place, a place not short of enclosures dimly

puffing symbols of tar. The cistern's morning wood shamed into

moving like a toothless hare. Germinating only a lugging,

not really a producing, or a ceding. Technology of today.

The cyborg inbreeding of 'quaint' viper's shinbones with 'tasteful,

understated' gardening shears. They say 'spontaneous' killing

is 'oblivious' killing. So as one concoction our cistern and phonograph

barges into a supermarket, without looking left or right.

I am too old. I am very old. I prefer to whet my bowels' natural textiles

on reading the Guineas Book Of World Records, getting off on the

one particular record held by this hypochondriac young woman for

the most cheap accessories lodged between her toes in one beach stroll.

RAP 1, 2 AND RAP 3

RAP 1

it is OK to sing or rap to your droid, but remember

to change their plastic sheeting twice a day; the

first time upon normal disintegration; the second time

after a wet dream – dumbass you shouldn't have sung

or rapped to your droid while it was sleeping...

cuddling up with it but avoiding the denser voids,

and sometimes allowing their ulcers to culminate into

bloated dissociation: the mug-morphing droids of

self-analizing puppies, mechanically squirming on

their own chins, it's just a robot puppy but goddamn –

it's still distracting to look where its ancient corrugations

are pointing, droids personalizing their filaments

like dovetails corrupted in the glare

will need to be returned to the shop or dumped in the basement

but without draining one habitat one would never know:

now the basement is totally clean owing to one thing left out

while happily, meanwhile, my bong's recurring wool surrounds

the big insular outside, the outside outside...

without which (i.e. some sort of outside) we're all submerged,

under water, perhaps moving, perhaps trapped, with a

lid on this high-speed bathtub

RAP 2

I sink and stare through the water – feel made of gold,

rapping, underwater, to myself, this time: rappers preserve their bling

in wheelbarrows, but we're a species left underground

and need no preservation, blind though level

with each other, knees always touching only

the observable, our harnesses essentially missing a W

for correct behavioral underpinning

aliens are attracted to the so-called 'virtual portals' in

their human burritos, ears and eyes – all abnormalities

in replicate as, of course, we're meant to have only one of each,

and plus what's more annoying: a small piece of gravel

retards formation of their society's electronic 'disk,' to be lowered

onto Earth, their instruments weeping over snarls and insults

from the great underground atom, underground reception bitching –

RAP 3

I'd just like to be an antenna for a day or just a stick

thrown into the air to hear their cries for help

ZOMBIE SYNTAX

that awkward moment when catching your arm

and wanting to express gratitude, it lets sounds down &

out through its frayed ribcage, seemingly

stacked with fucked-up coat hangers: the carcass can't

keep up the ingress much longer

a lower lip might also help: each swallow

can get very oozy, a nightmare aphasia riffing

across the naked zombie's Adam's apple –

pouches exploding the smell of leather

EYEBALLFART

saved some side-expanse

handstanding the worst-smelling

fart

floor to ceiling foulspace;

or something to that effect

occurring in water,

every little fish in the slipstream

of its swimblade

would be desert-rolled

the fart can misguide a musical instrument:

you strum where once were the neat indentations of

gills, now sealed up

my own sentience isn't that much different in

comparison – sentenced to the drudgery of

un-wobbling a cow-eyeball seasick on the movements of its

blue Gollum-boned rag doll fuck-smurf hybrid host,

once every hour, with its foot pump

the latter gross for tending to

code tiny revelations into spider veins

but fucked

if I can help it

HICCUPS

joy can't help but squab on toxicity

to slide a cheesecake down from its fixing point

and mess the rake of logic onto a 'stop pad'

no happy medium in the dry sand –

can you please bobble on piss

and be nice to bunches of solids on theater seats

anywhere around junk I am really all 

Hubble pulled from your window, lined with “pick me gone from”

drawn ledge of high level indication

spitballing to really concentrate on my narcissist

quantified instead of sealed off

body the ash and go along to permeate,

an installation of I and we

of scrolling a shriek up the zoo

like stopping hiccuping and now I want

my hiccup back

A SPOT

a sticky, musky ambiance owing to cuddling with three-pronged

bacterial connectors, also responsible for

polygonal recesses in X-Men tissue cultures

DNA plug-ins, propellers detaching hair-root tails

the snow tassel just before congealing into a marshmallow

resiliently playing up the clown-influence

behind smashing into a hobo's face and oh shit wait …

that's more the providence of the bad mutants

also more posh crimes, like storming in and against the backdrop

of elevator music gumming up the dinner guests' bowels with

a portentous, interfering rash of footfall-acoustics

they (correctly) imagine an exploding skull providing the perfect

counterweight to Christmas, as in the middle of the table

it's recognized as only a small dark spot whose teetering in

the middle of the table makes the guests feel disorientated

magnetically hovering there, laughter from the spot

becoming angled toward the end of the spot's life cycle

OBSERVATION'S INK

The bridge to the Bronx is suede when in the

depressed position. Gazing across the grain is slow.

Inky observer, trying to stay awake, sight's braids

microwaving to a crawl. An old lady robbed you.

Eventually, her decency hogged the lure and spilled

something from her. It was in compensation, that she took out

a jar and invited you to put your leech in it. Dust looping

over the glass's geodesic paperweight weight.

“We wanna trade pixels with you.” Meaning the dust wants to

bash you over the head with the hollow paperweight. You yawn.

You yawn until you're flat. Until you're black. Until you're matt,

dying of natural causes walking across the room.

Resurrected again on meat hooks. A gimp. Soaking up water with

your feet then drooling from the mouth until you're

a nauseous green. Whatever you are, you are no longer a user of coasters.

Would help if the bed was illuminated in nauseous green,

to bring out the bed-sized fingerprint lying on it. Not incriminating

so much as inimitable and irreplaceable and unique.

Not organic. You offered to piggyback the old lady

to the nearest bus stop. She loved every bone supporting your

pickup truck hairstyle. You're a character met on Craigslist,

ingrate biometrics. Scanners at airports read

Comic Sans crust on your irises. Terminal continuity.

The seasons that press the bridge into the water are a better person.

MIRROR TEMPERATURE, MIRROR HATE

I don't want to die

before I get to hell

one soul-detail comes off

in the last centimeter

of travel

it's an implement of voodoo –

the gnome always

leaving the mirror

at night, stalking the corridors

normal temperature in the

mirror is

quickly achieved

such temperature is

a nexus one can only reach

when the firecracker

behind the mirror

providing both light

and heat and texture gets lost

in height

otherwise forming a yellow fire on

the mirror's lake; like the

creature at the bottom of the lake

might be family of the dust mite

puking acid on a sandcastle

temporarily, opposing industrial forces

in the bolts that hold the mirror

to the wall have the thinnest content,

making the mirror great for ruin porn

what I sometimes see in

other people, on the other hand,

funnels my gallstones

forward

stopping again when a hand

is softly put upon them

I catch myself cleaning my nose

in the mirror with

my front 'feet'

am I being inverted?

bending and crawling

to convey the meaning of

this, likewise evidenced,

on this planet, by other

users of the inverse

applying this otherworldly space

until it's too widespread,

moves too fast, looks long

and desperate: a mechanical

cock on a realistic

stick figure running

up and down a train's

stick figure cock on

which stands an unrealistic

person

a sock

on second glance a hot maid

vacuuming the sock full of suss

on a flying saucer

her right arm

is too far out during her cleaning

so cool air

can't reach

her shoulder

her alien captors

weigh her vagina's head

had the head's inner wheel

been at rest

things on the ship

would've ceased to

make sense

RETENTION

Knit by lugging the shreds of heavy things around,

although, still, after a decade, the lizard has no real head.

It's as if its mask has no end, causing it to brutally

doubt its own sentience, consisting of dark coverings on

difficult days.

On good days the sun shines in under the door

but lifting the door through the jamb, sounding

like a nutcracker...

Monster sanitarium adorning us foul.

The doll on the next park bench along only changed

position once, trees exaggerating shadows, yanking

scarlet over fence spikes.

At night our hearts run out. Into the cupboards

that thereby become grotesque and try to feel us up...

Last night some sort of Tesla machine lit its crackles

on my weird gown. Something shut in a bitter pill

the nurse said actually contained bunnies,

although they must've run out like our hearts

instead instilling the pill with their bitter lack.

I learned that certain things are evoked in brains by dunking brains

in acid. The doctor said much of the mind is a labyrinth, and

like all labyrinths, it has memories, a diorama people

stay in, in my case prompting more despair because

it's the wrong place for people to stay in because

they can run out like our hearts and like the bunnies.

FUCK CHESS

pulls slightly at string of faux laser

dry noise teapot-bestowed

4loko to make the pleasure

based on the horrible grains of

a burn victim

curdles bodycare through the skin

and when reaching the liver,

turns into delicious Fois Gras

another stint scheduled

on Mars, so as to get

behind its creaks ala Jonah,

who'd somehow entered a whale through

its protective strips

'ah,' he said. 'Walmart,' he said –

it had, he saw, in the meantime gestated

floorboards appropriate

for the travel of green scum

halloween so typically in the

mushroom's exhaust note,

until reduced to a can,

sometimes not obvious how,

staved off by everything it approaches,

nobody responding to its voice

fractions swim as one

for “shaking typically will not hold my plastics”

in a dying-away sound of

metallic coughing

“you're my defibrillator” -

I've been assigned!

“you're my crowbar” -

I've reappeared again!

puppets going on tick-over

when the jumper cables come off:

the sex show's luster suddenly resembling

an enigma eating, messily, in the fashion of

pieces in a boardgame closing in

the defibrillator leaves crumbs in bed;

the crowbar hypocritically wears a 'cushion'

across its neck for self-sealing

although is already scratching its pawn-shaped boil

for some fuck chess later