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
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