Wood Chipper II

Soothing crop circles, tucked in. Gems on Craigslist, fingered by a dick. Door latches melted by a meowed curse. Ethereal yellow rock, a product of jerking off. The ounce of brown sharknado metastasizing in a wood chipper. Buzzing human remains murking the coroner's piano key teeth. Cum on the convenience store floor mapped in valencies of protruding stegosaurus bellybutton. A sandwich breaks apart as shiny suckers emblazon smiles into it. Shitfaced suicide teleports dirt. Haunted haystacks slough watercolors.  

Draper Dildo

Since it can't be stapled down, Donald Draper throws trojan starterghost – aka afterbirth – afoul of the unphysical doll. Menstruation retards beauty in crude home videos. We're sharing everything nailed – composite retro prosthetics, petrified fu manchu, greasy finger marks. Taking a shit at work half asleep restricts movement of the ass-face's evergreen lead head, as if the end of the stepladder Draper falls off of, numbed raking windows, in the nightmare intro, casually and eerily suddenly only halfway puckers, but further jet-propelling dream-sequences ... An exotic dildo impersonates a stiff mechanism of some sort, which doesn't have a face. Mothman shrink-wraps moth dust then romances it, moth dandruff, farming the shit until it short-circuits. Dust most easily falling off of halloween plants, in confusing reflections, and off of anything else I, Betty Bumfuck, can humanly think of. The Mogwai has to be moved around a lot before slotting in, but Wilhelm-screams like a girl, which is hot? I suppose? Teases him (and me?) like double-sided adhesive tape, vacant waffle, bulb cramp, diarrhea puddles in teethmarks, a toxin.

Skin Earth

Unearthed skin and the lurching e-cigarette. A green black hole levitating text. Lovecraftian cum on the wedding trowel. Karate aliens enema-ing to eternal bliss. Action figures and the alchemy of eBook McNuggets; cosplay muffled, warts and all-you-can-eat. Ejaculating Coke on an umbrella from smiling, two-faced test tubes, causing cataracts of math. Forklifting an ancient civilization. Unseemly clawing. Brain-dead rabbit. Hat full of Satanic zoo. Piss axis stop-motion brooming, and the ensuing muffin-prism. Bricks of purple, nightmare smoke; real meat. Stem-cell nymph, to scale. Satyr-chugs, without arms. 

Sleep-Cranking

Fields of pantyhose glitch meaningfully.

An image of Betty White and her stygian posse

momentarily nullifies Hell. Badbreath

cowlicks rugburn on wigs. A centipede

creeps gurgling into catnip, spine-paddles

ruffled, gouging an iron lung. I crank in

my sleep. Toasters erratically goop in my

crank-dreams. Motherfucking antennas

against a misty background etc. In this world,

placid antics act as social buffers.

Stephen Hawking talks like the devil.

Dry-humping drainpipes invokes

the body of a feather, which fills

a tub with occult equations. After a major judder,

there's goblin shit everywhere. The asphalt

gets psychedelic cancer, a behavioral costume

made in the act of consuming one's twin

in the womb; of stimulating spiders

in a van; massaging vase water.  

Tastes Human

Quantum mechanics unknot a cop's weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank's fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank's event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic's organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave's double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker's cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein's monster, even though he's jacking off to Flickr.  

Bus Flowers

In the Leviathan's library, dreamt up from sentient syllables, a bioluminescent Angel of Death underpins our solar system's arcade queef. Underpins our planet's faucet-buzz. The curiosity of freely associating with lasers in the bathroom mirror's lunar sac. Of mnemonic balls' typhoid-neuron hinging on a curious green screen. Operatic horror-stick chooses its own adventure through MRI vagina's pop-up omnipresence. Bothers infinity. Projectile vomits on a bus. Caught in anomalous slime-crimes. The ghost's exoskeleton passing a giant bird's cock-hole on primordial skis.  

William Tell's Cumsock

Sock shooting by William Tell.

The sock's chin as visual aid.

Hoarding ugly bones.

A gun poking a sock.

A yesterday-worn woolen sock.

A creaking, leathery,

cogwheeled, grandfather-clock

sock. Steampunk towel.

A tarantula-legged Hilter-headed sock puppet.

Ahahaha.

Sad.

Sometimes the sock's forehead.

Sometimes above the sock's forehead.

FAP FAP FAP FAP

Sock aura screengrabbed

in a gnawed-off curdle.

Sock-faced, sexysauce trickletool.

Almost impossible to miss

at this range/angle. A sock

crushed by an empty wolf.

Leveraging the sock's ass to –

AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!  

Hate Poop

A spaceturd brains space. The funeral will be held
with tweezers. Crack-spat genies fistfight
relatively austerely, unlike the starving.
With the booming quaver of popcorn,
acid-stripped clots hungrily uncoil from
syphilitic skullcraters. A more overwhelming fantasy
than YouTube rhinoplasty is the spaceape’s hair,
which the curse turned into a vehicle for crumbs.
Once triggered, the entire séance had reflexively
stood back. The priapic prison from which Smaug
hate-poops is an obviously dead bud. 

The Labyrinth

Two shits grow on trees. Moaning at diarrhea nuts.

Cum ripens on a heel. The rest of the sucker hordes

air-quote a responseless headboard.

Realistic autonomous foreskin. Alien muscle disembodied

by its light. A smoothie turns the dog.

From its core, the fart pillow vomits

a patch of gold. In peace, Karma’s tits

face-melt the Lawnmower Man’s tits.

Metamodernism

Ink cut and ruminated into circus fossils

by Pedoplant's animatronic O face.

The shopping trolley of the meta-apocalypse

stuffed with numbers ballooning on top of numbers

in the style of El Chupacabra tased

beneath the UFO-scape's streetlights.

Jerk-radio Freud-frogs wavy as an

erection on its commute to the

Taco Bell urinal's strange eyeball romantically

unfrozen in a marijuana blaze.

Well, snakes have hatched on the online

disease-sea's swelling periodic table on

which a corkscrew-cocked raccoon stands

laughing like a screaming stapler. Twee

doom-doodle; your cancer's migration dependent

on mawkish gravity. A wax piano beaten

with chains of endless data simulation.   

Church Party

Care for some of the primitive crap funky cartilage blurbs. Play Scrabble with the macabre cells. Self-cannibalized in a VCR suit's holiday spines. Bogus elephant rays sexually potato up, like a meltdown of one's Sunday oral cast, masking a clock of transmitted-cockroach. Bigfoot skateboards down the egg stair. Walleyed squirt of the Ark's diabetes-heating. Hitler diapers Dracula's thigh gap; open penis ghost-scrounged. Master sediment goatse. Bag-infusion exposing many a rotten tricorder. Software that fears the pizza's echolocation, which is fantastic. Peach glossy eye-poop, buttons uneasy ego stable again. Of the cunt sculpture's awful pole down the mass chemical. Distortion of mood-entanglement forks for miles. Preserves the pale impaled sweater. Boring, affected as reenactments of the church surgeon's butchering of artificial intelligence, in trans-opiate suicide unemotionally party.

The Lizard's Part

ET's badly jerking haircut.

100% defenestrated cornflakes.

Glowdick's passive-aggressively broken fingernail.

Mall-murder's blade-interior's claw-feel. 

Hunts in a tantric onesie:

Big slick runs hearse-like. 

Down his buttock's solitary.

Turning armpit in fragments.

Of what's rejected when –

Hobo-ET flashes:

Ass-cold Axe-cloud auto-

mainlined really invisible.

[In fragments] only by mounting quicksand –

Deodorized lizarddick sleeping.

On weird structural supports:

A Target is where the moonlanding once was.

For there's slapstick, much.

In cattle-corpse nostril mooning mooncrater,

Exploded elf-guts. 

Atomizing on the lizard part's plywood facade,

Caped grapes. Crepe grudges. 

Erected in the image of the mythical cheerleader.
Piloting crime-bones.

Then switching them off.

With heavy shoes clutching at straws.

Binge Time Travel

Satan appears dead, conquers by slurping. Parks, spins

warmer earthquake-tailed. A clicking blend of gears' 

regurgitated fog upsets stomach's gaping symmetry.

Loosens mummified ear, dismembers horn.

The fool's tools produce a sound. 

Social media Quidditch bitch. Gratuitous rhyme

baking in the aftermath.

You, Blockbuster, sound like an insomniac's creepy peanuts calibrating –

a soul underlies the kinked tubes of the scarecrow in the trunk,

a thistle of levitating pimp. The devil may either sneakily loosen the small

shirt buttons of the maggot, or straight up SuperSoaker the world's

tarantula-mask as it cranks out gold kidney stones while cranking.

Radical binge time traveler with false knife.

On whose big cock perches the quantum samurai

of the black-and-white orgies, computer arteries

undermining the island unevenly, no homo. 

The Exorcist – Another Mutation

Linda Blair felt closed in by the mirror. Scumbucket.

Her question to the 1c mystic seer

had disturbed a footlong in cryo sleep, Subway-grim;

inflatable thrasher, distant spanner.

Salt in the wounds of a prawn.

Yes, the Y chromosome is a jar full of vintage cunt-fear.

As a rustic amoeba, breaching the city limits hurt;

from within a makeshift black lagoon

its stalk thus pushed away the room's white lighting.

Its hybrid beef jerky spirit animal thus pushed through

the urban witch's scissors headlessly, smearing rabies as

quickly as it could; turbo-fiddly. Grilled to heavier powder in 
preparation for heavier hoovering. 

The Last Orthodontic Dick-Measuring Contest

My dentist unleashes the mammoth snowflake ooh.

A hot metallic smell of distilled blackout and demisted cube.

We chat about Miami Vice since we both long for shows that

can dislodge the appalling milkshake from any tomb,

a longing which, despite the many fingers in my mouth,

causes me, but also him, to impulsively sigh. Impulsive wind.

“May I tell you about my alter ego's unclean diaper's wallet chain?”

This catches him a little off guard. Quickly, to reenforce the boast:

“And about the impending glitter I tend to hallucinate whenever I

spank said unclean diaper?” He loses concentration, trails off with

gruesome, but pretty loose, comparisons between my alter-ego and

burglar-furries taser-spliced thick-lined into a heartbreaking matrix of

Dalek belly lint normalized in one blanketing pile of leatherface Bible screensavers –

an example of which (i.e. an example of such a furry) he offers to show me,

on his phone. Including some holiday pics introducing me to a Danish

“dragon-butcher's” horse-drawn shorts derping dream-addled in time-lapse

on his (i.e. on my dentist's) last vacation there (in Denmark), “ahhh.”

I become impatient, a little bit grossed out. He goes: “Ahhh, annoying

gum-herpes are such a major wank-deterrent.” And, darkly, invoking a random

metaphor, “I've seen many a proverbial orthodontic cum-extractor fall off the

proverbial retractable locust.”

I am close to tears, saying, “I am unable to see toothpaste in the dark.”

I'm trying to keep face but admit to finding, like a fucking tourist,

suicide hotlines so enthralling. My dentist can't stop boasting:

“I hold the Guinness World Record for having the most bumholes.”

“Like any tourist,” I mumble.