The Trial

I am in love with old roadkill's 50 shades of bursting sausages. Webbed fingers wreck asteroids in my dreams. Like meat hooks, they haunt only the buffet's gray areas. 50MB worth of streaming eviscerates puddles, contradicts geysers and geysers of Earthman pee. Tesla-weed further whips the fever into a Luddite horror show of sheathed all-you-can-eat. Look at the stupid robot cry. Jerking my empathy. Who'd ever buy the beta home empathy-jerker? An ogre which because of its demonic clockwork makes jerk-off motions at tiny life forms and tiny circumstantial fluctuations, meanly? Ironic that being on Big Brother instilled in the Nexus replicant its passion for gauche microbes, with the soft patience of a teacher. Big asteroids make it shit its pants. The latter asteroid-induced shitting of pants is a veritable soap opera embedded in stone. My warts, too, feel haunted. The protons. Oh the protons. I don't know. Webbed fingers liquidate the oddity behind Kafka's loincloth's last roaming snot-out. Yet even the meaningless conga-lines in court are not quite inert.

Plague Jacket

Today's guest

is a BattleMech 

on which it

appears to

be raining.

Oprah herself

is the sofa-

augmented

God-eye

at once static

biology and

a film of pixels

grabbing at the

window, obscene.

The window-sensation

sexually birthing a

mechanical doodad

in the

window.

On the

horizon

amid the

horizon's

buttload

of lasers.

Raindrops

covering the

Mech,

like pores.

Pores that

slide smiling

into their

glass pods.

The great

central doodad –

reloading?

But anyway

sporting a

coat of wet

garden gnomes

a wearable

plague.  

SEX LEGOMAN - A Christmas Poem

Matter's wet plop in original 3D, through the alternations

of a Rice Crispie's emptiness, tentatively,

moving across the kitchen counter in the arms of an ant.

Satellited by a flying fuck. The weather self-healing beneath the

squid visor. The flying fuck's snorkel. The snorkel's constant tone, eerie.

Sex Legoman's monotaint during arousal: suede.

A meat wall unbroken by genitals or anus or mouth,

up and around, from base of Lego skull

via crotch back to chin where Lego head resumes

its yawning. Snakes on a plane are genital Christmas trees:

one's mouth-anus has chin-balls. One's mouth

has a vagina. But Sex Legoman is all perineum.

Cheese-conduction occludes this T-1000.

Matter can be pawned, today. And through all of this:

magma. The electric provocation of hybrid fingers

raking a bonfire cold. Fire-resistant novelty spray on a space shuttle's

windscreen poking carrot-holes in space-fire. Consumption.

Porn receptacles emptied by the appetite of a single zoosperm.

Our local drive-in disguised by beer cans. Defects in matter.

Figures approaching, touching.

Christmas Forked

1 slick sprain gravitationally

marries itself, hemorrhoid skeleton baking

hazard suds

Lassie is the cells of the Micheal Bay singularity –

earthworm, contortionist,

post-it nap zit, nap jowls 

but the pantomime is dissonant with the real banana peel heel

hangs around

hugging

latent customer

very outside

heart of occasional non-function

out of control,

dangles plastic

robot slo-mo

picks ATM up

off

money money money money money

Exodark ejects

Ender's blooper

more arms more stark surfboard

threaten bully with Christmas fork

electrode-whorled,

under cover of dust,

as poltergeist mind-reading

artifacts go, cheaply

Grass Sizzler

Dinobarf's gross doomsday-electron

sizzles in the grass. The naked special-ed dinosaur

gets yelled at by an old, yellowed dinosaur.

10-sided, 12-faced, fair as crayons, a cyborg collapses;

green elastic cleavage erasable by motel TV remote

reflected aquatic against the ceiling.

There are algae-explosions in Resident Evil.

Vacuums in a modular zombie's filth-shells can

have different BO consistencies and can be juggled.

The voodoo of soaking the itch in frozen yogurt

squeezes a breeze through shredded arteries. 

Flesh Waste

glitching in wizard trousers

through the cheerful erupted

backyard flesh waste

Barbie steals her frog's zen

back and forth between

Klingon hug therapy and the thuds

of its morbid jazz

bong nunchucks

touched fatty with

universe-fat

a reinterpreted cardboard cutout's skin ashes vibrating

in atomic deadpan;

a floating Loch Ness lid

the hugs are dangerous, analytical,

the inkblots booby trapped

with bacon

but the brain scan says I'm not, I'm not yet, anything,

and the offensive nubbin of my projection sinks back

into the machine 

Funk Does Not Last Long, Very Fog

Wintry memories, like spiders stuck shiny

in the cold porridge of the mind-software,

infest crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.

Sordid farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.

Let's hear your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked

in separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.

Yeah, we've all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt or at a low point.

We've seen Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen

skeleton. New Age underwear. Burger gun.

Orally, in this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a distance.

Imagine a life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited

to the arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your Maxim.

“Oh lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces reads,

“stop hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”

Lifehack: stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to

prevent the sun from baking your dump. 

Bum-Shaped Smoke Rings

invincible birthday hologram

pivoting lukewarm

cohesive, armpit fart-relieving surface-level

steering fake, jointed pet round

trailerpark GIF

(pig beam)

smoking the bad taste out of trees

(longer pig beam)

(jointed, smoke rings)

(fart)

(longer fart)

(jointed, smoke rings)

map of the infinity-booger; melted salt

recreational, pneumatic mini ax Zod-sproing;

that's some gob-crusted

da Vinci Code shit

right there, invincibility in its pseudoscience's

Gatorade void, three-legged

encapsulation

by a poorly

cropped T-Rex

The Fucked-Up Butler

The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at

the cyber town meeting jostles for position on

the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of

boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as

the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of

a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he

hoarded on the space station were interchangeable

with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged

with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.

With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,

like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in

olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human

contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine

idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.

Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.

Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then it

fucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up. 

Logbook Of A Sociopath

[As the Stone Age's edges fall away,

a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.

Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.

Its interior is lacking.

It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]

WALL-E's Logbook:

Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.

It felt so good, working loose my clone.

WALL-E's Logbook: Took several weeks

to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding

claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw's exact inherent

cone-space like an actual ice-cream.

The “ice-cream” itched.

WALL-E's Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.

Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark's strange marks, here and there.

WALL-E's Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;

the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.

I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,

threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.

Often there's very heavy rain.

WALL-E's Logbook:

A little coked up. Bruises better now.

Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.

Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin' it.

Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!

WALL-E's Logbook:

Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.

But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.

WALL-E's Logbook:

The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.

I laser it off; all access to the sky

is restricted, now.

Jesus Pop

A funeral after a fashion. Holograms at the back of the throat, bleeding. Unrealistic cooking. Poking from a sleeve. Steeped in motherlessness. A gaggle of parasites and I. The pox – the fist of a fancy word. Evil by the most autistic orc; a bridge by the multifaceted squirt. His mug's tubes, swaying. Obnoxious. A nebula. Carving whose goiter craps kinks. A twitching mirror reflection. Texturally plumbing the strap-on nerve. Its toe. Oatmeal reality TV coined the eternal jingle, promiscuously, from under a USB cleft lip. With one's fanny pack's dynamo, moon worship-stroke the id. Pop Jesus to spread his trash talk. Here's one amputee not made for straight nails. 

Popeye-esque War Flashbacks

Just above the deathbed's complex vegetation

a soul coldly spiderwebs.

Eggnog resin warmly impregnated

the World War I mitten

when its wearer fell, shot?, hand

placed wrongly – dog shit?

A closeup of Popeye ruffles the cockles of one's heart.

The family dog stopped using the treadmill as a toilet.

The Swayze Centaur

Flowers fistfight, as if shed by a stiff tuning fork.

So has the Centaur been debunked in the twilight –

cartoonish Swayze-acrobatics embodied by a used car,

a veritable plantation of human smells

embodying the crack baby on its dope

arc interacting with dolphins.

Though the vices of the serial killers among dolphins

are all dark metaphors for things that poke through rings,

bath salt piston plumes trail

the Centaur's transition from tripedal T-Rex

to imperial albino

shedding vertebrae like a spring wedged in pulp:

vertebrae satellited as if by the

temperamental trill of

a molar,

defibrillated senseless by

the interdimentional

jawbone –

every pimp glares gloriously,

shedding

Like scales, the lightning bolt of a dead

god falls from

the eyes of the deaf

A man and a woman put LOTR on loop,

saying: “I am.”

“You're a small sore on my knee, healing.”

“Tiling the earth.”

Google Earth traces

Santa's bloody trajectory

through somebody's sleepover –

the sasquatch-textures of

congealed chocolate piss

outline the Easter Bunny's

squeaking human chassis

Angry Pigs

A parking lot's worth exhumed by grave diggers,

the Special K self-cancels, baroque.

Castration curdles in space.

The specter of alien home surgery ties Bambi's

dangling rib cage and pickled rectum

together in a taxonomic rainbow as elastic as the

magnetic fields of this very UFO.

Smokescreening, Elmo liberally smears fecal wax on space's shiny

black horror-monolith, the root's O-face sunk in rock, walrus-

weeping rusty achingly. Dreamy drapes hang the thought bubble dirty, inside:

“Somewhere,” he thought, “a bear-suited alien is getting sucked

off in the name of, and on an altar to, his science, recumbent

as a wet pig.”

Twin Peaks, As Understood By Someone Who Didn't Understand Twin Peaks

A semen-slathered robotic arm held the Log Lady's log.

A sliver of the intrepid selfie it helped take would drift

through Special Agent Dale Cooper's Power-Point presentation.

A catapult stationed in the heart of Saturn's ball pit

would distort the sky; on entering our atmosphere, its rubbery

payload would catch fire in fern-like strobes.

Lynch lets us explore the weird stages of “home” for the can opener;

babies veggie-crawl from the mouths of evil squeeze-bots

that assist in virgin births. Metallic rooftops swarm

the mystery shoe.

Curly horse head wrapped in Neanderthal bandana abuzz with recreating bonds –

for inside this wonderland-helmet a glass Earth's sinuses

puff drone-transmissions. Laura Palmer's yearbook pic reverberates with

extracts from an afterthought, as preludes to an alternate reality but also as bait.

Dayglo Carny

Dew conceals the dayglo carny.

Like germs, in the tombstone’s blinking of sharpish tissues.

‘Nice germ lance,’ Ernie says,  

Re its alloy’s neighborly spasm

Amidst zero-gravity tendon-despair.

You’re a sickening shoplifter, she says.

Framed in falling soil.

Chipmunk ribs are numbers:

They reverse cowgirl nightmarish wheelbarrows.

The veneer’s slight gradient’s smell of wet wool,

nacho cheese gleaming,  

a dopamine pustule but full of water,

the rattling chunk of implanted gum,

inflammatory

A Separation Of Dead Parts

The donor's organ rears its ugly head.

A rudimentary pump teleports the blue bolus

from the abattoir straight into a black hole

1978 light years away. The black hole swallows,

shits – filling a test tube with the grayish brown sweat of a

hillbilly food fight. Only a psycho would stab a

black hole through a shower curtain, causing a scream

to spider outwards from the center of the Earth.

I pray for a sexier reality.

The Na'vi pray for the hallucinations of a shopping trolley terrorizing the neighborhood

to stop.

I lose myself in a phone book.

Retinal cancer turns my eyes into Oreos.

My avatar's mustache turns into The Blue Amorous Mangler.

Universal seepage sexually harvested by blue spongiform holocaust-mustache.

Heat sacrificed by my avatar's LEGO taint.

A sexier reality that is all about the separation of dead parts

in memento mori pinups.

A Tardis swallows logic with its steam.

Bong germs mop up the leftover crumbs.

A mutant turd ramps the toilet paper

and lands in an embrace of deep-sea laundry, wondering:

Of what precisely am I a symbol?

After running into Santa up there, astronauts fall into fucking comas –

instantly cursed upon contact with his onion-like Santa-chemical.

Seen from every angle, balding through the acid ether,

this psychic onion spouts evil pockets in its translucent scalp,

pockets not filled with anything, not even thoughts.

Hooters is filled with boobs, and the homeless bring their thoughts

to communicate with them. Before long, the thoughts are big,

and the Milky Way sports a foamy outer layer.

Evil Dentist

While, like pee splashback on eBay, the torso of a stem cell looks all

flat in a solar eclipse, its ballooning skeleton arms

keep being dragged along by a hoary jetpack –

a suicide-ET going multiple-Cinderella

on his gaming console, mud-wrestling

neurological pewter that's already been diluted by

sex and violence.

Stepping out into the sun, this potato loses its eyebrow's connecting screw.

A dark dentist amidst his enamel housewares,

it wears an artificial heart on a chain

while blogging – eyebrow-less, potato-chested – about anxiety and

other medical emissions. An abstract blowfish fills its masochistic visualizations –

X-ray vision's salad fringes line their post-nuclear footprints.

Again, like the Babylon termites churn out, flattened

to reduce friction – deformed by overdubbing.

Fuck A (Rubber) Duck

Earth's last terra ingognita can be seen from space.

The others had been licked into alignment by the ocean,

bedside shadows analogous to shaved meat.

Novelty musk – the new addition to an ancient line of zombie wear,

fossil-deadweight propped up by ashen metronomic farts.

In the next aisle, Slender Man's two-pronged forehead vein superimposes a

lightening bolt of moisture on his blank face.

His soul, laced with coffin jelly, burps.

His Crocs wield a Rolls Royce's womb-magic.

Wobbly tetrominoes born of a scrotal Rubik's Cube.

A spooky resin resurfaces as the hatchet unmasks the dummy,

probing for a rosebud behind anomalous curtains.

Tropical cinematic projections on Twilight Zone shorts.

Food coloring dripping from the assholes of snakes fat on rubber ducks,

or from the tiny kink at the soft core of an increasingly lifelike Big Mac.

In one gentlemanly goat, Super Mario is reconciled with a blatant nonentity:

his own necro-long johns. On bath salts,

he's telekinetically sculpting earwax

into a death mask, a balaclava dentally

violently thrusting. He looks sick.

He feels his waxen combover's too-powerful grip.

In the distance, the disconnect between the skyscraper of 8-bit puke

and its boiling undercurrent heals.

Reefer

Oblivion used to be sexy all over –

gathered near an affectionate but elusive pore.

Feeding it splits it, the spewing metal lampshade of Pinhead's constipation.

In a metallic confluence of Gulag desiderata,

aorta-yolk returns home –

a prodigal curiosity.

While Stockholm syndrome forges a sock

through which his dickcheese bores,

Hitler's growing amusement is inappropriate;

it has suddenly mushroomed, like a werewolf,

a sebaceous human centipede

that, the bigger it gets, disappears into the crowd.

Literal moth leak here and there sticks dandruff-style

to the blades of a figurative lawnmower, which is attractive to it,

which is a flapping, spring-loaded cluster of literal and figurative

Blackface magic.

Things slowly and deliberately scrape the pinata. What the unfathomable membrane

broadcasts alternates between lumpy bumping carts and omniscient schoolgirl.

Halloween Poem

i

Remote controlled

meaty squiggle, ready

for death.

Creepy-crawly

spinal cord

on ice,

occupying dreaming's

multi-blob prison.

Escaping the synth-fueled circus,

epileptic

shapeshifting.

Donnie Darko wallows in

the prism; tap water alters his

knuckles.

Worms burrow

in nostrils, digital-green.

Slime holds euthanasia-tubing

in place.

Wet-flog amphibious

Mogwai.

Grapple with a combination

of evil robot whodunit

and neolithic fungus's inherent

glow sticks.

Unfriend an X-Man.

Ghostly FB search results.

Rare hopelessness offered by the

tractor beam.

Adult droid showing asshole.

Abducted by aliens.

“Droid.”

Sensitive electric ass-acne.

“Asshole

stars.”

ii

Flying backwards drowns dinosaurs

in a clock's continuum.

The batting doormats

of ruined eyelids.

The dancing foreskin monster

merely entangled with the illusion

of a convenience store:

like laughter inside an ATM,

his starship coasts through stringy space.

I am merely a Freddy Krueger

corrupted by a bath,

fog machine syndrome drooping under haunt-

lust.

Gaseous D&D fluffing puppy fabric.

A soap opera

of ornamental plague

rained by demon skull.

Aborting Mickey Mouse

A child doodles a crater.

Which becomes the Grim Reaper's church.

The sun dissects the opacity of the bloated sea monster.

Syphilitic clown-sinew brewed up by incest

in a horseshoe of alternative bladders;

Bollywood speed-dating

in formations of decaying bugs.

To the glorifying catcalls of ghouls, SpongeBob's shorts recrudesce –

replacing a McDonald’s tripod

with a bony Mount Doom.

Blackened, half-aborted Mickey Mouse-polystyrene

left to be raised by wolves.

Warhol's ADD disfigured his voodoo doll. By now an outdated Ewok,

buried alive in the form of smoothly stacked Pringles,

it moonwalks a braid of crumbs to the anus of a vending machine ...

along the paisley fringes of vertigo and Warp Drive's stink,

the hollowed-out basement's

shoggoth-outflow disguised

as paths bent weird by floods.

nightmare spacewalk

Diarrhea freeze-framed under mysterious circumstances

is not a hoax - but self-fulfilling, richly blinding. A 'ready,' thermos-aggregated

genie tic-tac hob-nobbing bakelight-bloated.

Orgy-sticks bob up and down under an invisibility cloak; a peaking hive.

Atomic chalking regrows skeleton bangles from the rancid cells

of a ghost plague.

Embalming only matches intangibles – with underground spirit-yellow –

encrypted yarn of idiot musk unraveling like an impulsion, cassettes, etc.

Hybrid-pajama spanning omni-chlamydia and so on.

Under the same impractical curse that My Little Pony spacewalks insectoid,

homoerotic exorcism on SecondLife airs cunt implants.

I just might kill the nigga.

Groceries may cohere in a troll's cold eyelids with earlobe-boundaries of

normal Eggnog, false memories will just keep juicing the whole Erf.

sexy golem

Netherworld overused in shower curtain timelapse.

Translucency at critical mass.

Transcend cesspool. Freaky haunt.

Nestled unease at cuckoo's nest's bad base.

Holding in berserk entity.

A hatching mothball's windy fringes.

Money murk for doll hickey.

Mug about-face; copped cropped ass-hole.

Abandoned jaws retained fartless.

I'm frog geyser-mollifying. 

Thumb tainted rug-engulfed.

Taint-snuff with thin film of shapeshifter skull.

Engorging organic mitt golem-sexy.

Volcanic vacuum cleaner darkness.

Etsy clump of oscillating nipples.

Hobo doom-knitting's 2D marks.

Clockwise attraction, Freudian-sized.

Roach-trace personal colony.

Hollow Buddha SquarePants.

Flamethrower leaning out Care Bear-boned. 

brown food

Brown bleeding through a shit sieve foreshadows freckles –

crypto kites the sky god's face swallowed, their visual imprints

flapping weirdly numb. Each a dead flipper scientifically reanimated,

'miraculously' kickin' it in Bill Nye twerk sock. Our block is pretty

dormant with Goonies on Ritalin, i.e. young urban wretches in

sticky juxtaposition with each other. Segas spurt dog eared.

Front lawns so buttery as to be wrapped in light. Picnic bouts

of dinosaur-fleecing, tendrils reaching the four ends of a Happy Meal.

Testicles are oddly cranial, elaborately loitering spider-bodied clusterfucks,

usually. Had pussies not lovelily melted space, they too would've behaved

like dicks. Barnacles merely take to the nearest object, usually. On Instagram,

the curb attaches to an ice-cream; in real life the ice-cream again self-dislocates

and/or saltily self-decapitates. I dislike and/or kick roast origami centaur.

I recycled my cat fetish online into brown tears like huge fucking zeppelins,

as if cats intestinally were flush with baked beans.

cartoon throb

blood-polished

bungle slapstick

low wolf

unvisitable

wall-to-wall

steaming hungry

unhindered silk cliff

machine-bouncing,

segued hugging bends

hidden remotely, carcasses fake

heartwarming

custom setting

throbbing

improvised crucifixion

asteroid chase

sentient memory foam bug-out

plopped pasty,

run out of

puppy jammers...

propeller moth

howling full of neon release

Grim Reaper connective tissue

on red dot sparse-spiral eyelash-repeat

with gnarly mattress aftertaste

a debunked vacuum door:

the prosthesis with a life of its own

cartoon-creeping from shredder

hanging on by body of shooting star

eat each other, a dimmer product

of Chinese whispers tooth decay 

lumpy bath water

Connecting brains eventuates a loss of the whole system

Combing the tub of sensory information

Blows my mind, a blown mind looks

Like a tub of jelly beans or a vegetable bypassing a stop sign

A ferris wheel keeping rebounding back

I want to die, I want to die

The funeral home catalyzes a drop in molecules

Armed with all my barf crimes

Clustering weightless

A formation of finger smell

As a true ninja would hideously thread

Ghostbusters vs. gimp and the vague

Waterline of a gag reflex

Evacuated from a darkening inflatable pool
Super Soaker doom bleep

My veins cradle the roadkill and all its flaws

Lumped into a metronome costume

Anthropomorphic radiator

Its apelike deliverance color-coded

By a logic in the bath

Specialized to eventually OK

Holographic floaters, stinkers, etc. 

TRON - live sack

the super

computer's inner

tongue-shaped

planet's

Victorian deep-

throat mall taste

gall paste

flammable beneath our grasp

a snail rim

brain

interface

as thick-skinned

as alien

wrestling

laundering sweatshirt signals

teabagging occult drones

rasping; crawling away in the depressing LEGO gutter,

a sack-enlivening

box cutter balancing

tenderly on

our biology's

sagging sepsis, with the irreversible arpeggios of pulp on a defibrillator.

TRON's canine complexion widens with relief –

poop cloning in the program's yellow eyes.

Talk about a traumatic reversal.

cryptic Tupac

Bog damage obeys its ramifications' insane assault leak, with graceful incongruity.

Hear the quarry's thrumming asymmetry. Splashy human being. Creampie interlinkages feathered in a grossly solid romance of honky diabetic offshoots and poached kid toy. The smell is not the only thing that improves. Derived transcranially from a clown, its poetic permutations pluck the passive intestine from a hot rod. Tupac is a two-pronged cryptid that coughs raw tranquility into the back of beef's throat. The cripple's rise's parts' sheen. A corruption of transparency; a theater seat grimacing beneath sex offender robot soldier balls. The numb glam of desiccated parking lot animal sacrifice. The absence of a theoretical butterfly limb contaminating the forest's complex vertical upholstery.

RAPE VAN II – another mutation

I lose hair in a trance. I then pay bogus money to get rid of this head of

recursive frisbee taint. The bane of flower petals not sitting flush.

Humpty Dumpty's scientifically impossible nipple ring

glances his lobster windpipe, which looks more worn with

each eerie, doorag-inverting exhalation and each chugging,

navel-tessellating inhalation...

Accidental religion under Airwolf's morgue hood.

Lumpy drips abracadabraed by the wifebeater of an aroused/accursed wife-beater.

The loose gravel proliferating around its Emo pump.

Proving memes have the lifespans of rubble.

And bear suits full of cum are a foible of the slave hordes,

long after their collective fungal bathroom fluff had clogged the gills eroded

into the cardboard cliff cutout in front of the villain's stuffy lair they

helped reticulate full of detours apropos of nothing. Shadowed roadworks,

gash-like in the glare of the kidnap-ambulance... 

sirens

Mutation corrects the snake’s migraine eyelid.

A mass of kinetic ectoplasm unsticks from my leg, delivering

the pizza’s glans.

Happy processor and liquid hashtag meanwhile align into anatomically neutral hemispheres –

i.e. a grid of psychosis rolling across gaping little trunks on a demon axis of severe plush.

Alarm cancels the voice in my head.

Revenge as a stimulant dyes Snow White’s vine meta-ghetto.

Necromancy haunts death’s inflation with fantasy static.

The amusement park levitates

as one piece of holy

rampant silicone.

Eyestalks succumb to wonder, not alarm.

Carlos Danger!

A clown has browned this area. Carlos “Bunsen burner” Danger's

science experiment conjured up a lifeless bicarbonate of soda burp,

by contrast. But an alleviated wormhole is still a ramifying wormhole:

IBM-noir innards – electronics as arcane as Bolivia, as heavy as New York –

purveying McDonalds as abstract as a virgin. Personalized resurrected fudge

compressed in a mold like the amygdala on LSD, pushing out through

the Martian layers of Batman's svelte rubber. The object of a tick's addiction

now singes its face. Sometimes an opaque coil strays like a black pube from

the otherwise transparent disease. Moldy pollution eclipses the hellishly bright

depression in those eyes, but soon settles and sticks to the floor.

Suddenly, in the clearance, you're being fondled by a plant. Face to face with

the plant: pain's beautifully fractured travels mirrored in the plant's sweaty face.

You two's two-headed mouth temperature; as warm as washing your hands

after the massacre. Nursing the bottle's cork remains demeaning to the blue

sinkhole of divinity. Groggy suicidal falling blocks are more widespread on

social networks. The Balrog's jumpsuit is sunshine-covered and its crotch

dispenses uranium PEZ.