Every
moment in time is time spent in the loo, in an arc of exhaust fumes,
healing milk and sea-partings.
From
time to time, we all lose our odor.
To have the odor of a crowd is to be very
complete. Romulan proverb.
But all my friends have lost their odor,
to an aether buzzing with sea-partings.
I had unclogged a bomb with healing milk.
Aided in this vice by a mechanical hip,
Moses was addicted to bowling.
Closet aether runs through the Porous
Maid, softly, like drying glue.
At every second of every day, one
kitten prunes.
And the air inside one closet turns stale
with exhaust fumes running spongy against claustrophobia or a
proximate nervous breakdown.
The muppet's bioluminescent deathshead
divined from bath salts, the old man's walker freighted with 6th
dimensional ore.
The hobo's arcing body odor, hung with
personalized soak.
It is easier to catch diarrhea with
gardening shears than to be likable. No wonder everybody is
recapturing their bog; nobody knows how to like.
To be incomplete is to be very Moses.
Density opens a drawer full of sea partings, a bra full of numbers,
an old man's rectum full of birds.
Photoshopped
from every direction like a sugar cube browning between Satan's thumb
and forefinger, making air run off its tectonic plates in accidental
numbers. But that's bowling for you.
The
hive's buzzing is accidentally sexy, forging a little figurine of
dried bog in cell phone language through lapses in Starbucks aether.
The
hive's buzzing revealed in mechanical failure, i.e. a random smut of
robotic spouting and untrammeled crook. That which accidentally glues
the legs of spiders to tropical density is a tool.
The
muppet loses its fittings in dissociative aether, in a harvesting of
plank and a lunging of mannequin carcass. The mustache of an
exploding head must try to keep its poise; in the mirror, the
wavelength of Alfred E Neuman's exploding head had been assigned a
fun-sized curl.
Although
it aims ballistic contraceptives from a costume of simulated tropical
gulch, the hobo's density can be raped.
This way
you can measure the perfume
of his density in numbers –
if you're made of black sugar and weeping from a necrophiliac sock.
The
beekeeper's mind forged a buzzing of accidental numbers that were
accidentally sexy. She opened a drawer full of lapsed points in
cereal aether discovered by eyes made of snaking milk.
During
the ceremony, each participant sat next to the next participant at
the adjoining table, in Starbucks.
Out of
my way, Moses.
I need
to use the loo.
The
hobo's density has discovered purgatory's environmentally-friendly
puddle.
As a
seamless shadow of chins, his blood is invincible.
Satan
has dropped the whole cockroach's eye into a joke mug.
Harvesting
the graveyard's sea-parting of dried tectonic spidersnot with a
single mustache.
In the
mirror, the firefly practices her bioluminescent polyp.
In the
mirror is a lifeless tectonic
plate beneath the reflection of an areola.
A light
object. “I'm now standing on an environmentally-friendly concrete
curb.”
The
mirror memorizes the reflection in its fibers. That's the firefly's
ceremony. A sprinkling of nothing.
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