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.