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.
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