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.
No comments:
Post a Comment