Masturblogging

The grinder of universal space gargles shrimp, the movement of its music overlapped by a puppy yelping forlorn and forever in some kind of background where the material constituted by everything hangs out, 3-D printed gibberish that hunts with a kind of detached mind, like an ancient pillow or a stiff wheel. An ancient trailer wreck becomes mean in a trailer park, overnight, eating nuns in an all-bran bug-out of special KKK, in Japan, the stressed fires of its Transformer hands deconstructed into Shadow Puppet 666. I didn't even get/give any flowers. The more shapeless, the better. “The less shapeless, the better,” says the ocean, painting its dick blackface. “Ah, but then bright wool left Dracula's shaved pussy shaved-looking if brightly woolen.” And Jesus vined my vomit möbius with a toilet duck. The perks of being/having a whore. The loud bursting of bugs silenced in deadsock redux, a robot idiot turd zapped by the rocket science of the night. Looking up, it's as if someone has draped their laundry over an electric chair. Fistfighting scum in the wake of Jackson Pollock's road trip. Fistfucking lobsters with the constipation of the night ... Eventually, your mom darkened the sky orange in a clockwork of elderly-lady openings filled with my turds; a comfortable symphony of redundant daddy-amputations, harder to press into a dress. An all CAPS lapse into handjobcoma squeezes more internet than meat from a floppy disk, enough to fill an X-Files specimen jar or to crawl all over your bitch sleepily. A temporary address for the new earthquake, punk as Easter eggs Storm Trooper-lubricated in a pre-emptive application of sanity to the jigsaw puzzle of Humpty Dumpty's broken mind, midair. Hot singles in your area. Gasping with natural delight in masturblogging weed-wreathed wristwatch-like white. 

Drool's Rules

until my wig returns to life, no wi-fi can identify its shrine from the

dumb but strong Gatorade evinced just now by its sack-style,

obviously, stretched hairless like a perforated bear into a treadmill of

nightmare chicken-pimples, idly; nor guess the moist, transparent steampunk

from its elephant voice, premature, spitting –

the nasal buzzfeed of a tennis ball endeared to angelic legs,

differentiated from its eventual cold formation into runny horseshoes, etc.,

violence distinguished from normal dick-colonization

by Playboy-erased android-hostility's semblance to potleafs falling on

Broadway and to proton streams crossing in accordance

with a meta-version of drool's rule

Crooked

Pluto, spread out before me like the yawn of a budgie.

Chernobyl, resounding with the guitar solos of, and used

as a toilet by, the ghost in the Matrix.

Vape clouds, staining the Girl Scout's love-brain.

Snake oil, the haunted goo of a Ku Klux Klan subtweet.

The church's brand, loneliness, skywritten.

The smell of a bloody pew.

Yellow, uprooted commercial gore, magnified.

In the vacuum of Silicon Valley's death-circus.

In the blender of a cryptid's holy bite.

Impaled, on the hashtag of a giant kiss.

Transformer flower-weight, immersed.

Like two insects, in wedding-cake slapstick.

Hubble, before it became a rabbit hole.   

A Worse Sharpie

Ass backed up into the side window so as to form a mask,

expunged subliminal corn dog as science fiction apology-strobe

scattered above the peanut trapped in a Victorian microscope.

Milk entertaining the id smiling up

begging the astronomical prism for an air-stream,

a hollowed out search light, a worse sharpie

mounted on your nutsack, Harvey Keitel flipping

royal bride bone on the slap-sack, a frayed, cannibalistic

trunk's ram-headed bong vulvae mounted on the smoke machine,

a side effect of bloodsuckers murking up the sacred toilet's rearview

camera 

Star Pus

The mindblowing sponge of snowboarder-crotch. A cute floating pumpkin.

Conflating a missing cereal box character and its cozy blog-surface.

Higher. Deteriorating from a tacit RPG into a cocain-fueled FAQ.

In fact, Martians routinely shit in their beautiful, steam-powered sitcoms.

Fan cadavers with money. Peel Skype's egg-viewpoint.

Everywhere, Jesus dams up in jugs.

Winter-bloodstains, turned to dust on eerie pizza-excerpts; powdered anxiety, defacing the sasquatch-door...

The fishmen and the fishwomen won't weaponize weed today. With a silly computer.

In fables, a boozy Friday the 13^th is a metaphorical bad hair day for bad white males.

Uh, the galaxy's at the barber –

Astringents drip into galaxy-follicles ... a new, bald white whale!

Screams. Squeezed-star pus.

Lab-grown Lego as alternate KFC.

As an outlet for hatred, RoboCop Wilhelm-screams, in general.

Christmas-lasers maul a family at the mall, in particular. 

Not For All The Tea On Mars

The apparatus wields data in a font made of shit.

The cropped blood vessels of a puppy thug online.

The mindscape's poked bladders are full as fuck.

The meteor gets thrown into the wastebasket from a dirty bike.

The Satanic medium's elevator cartilage is also media.

The drug riffles loneliness into realism.

The helicopter God swallowed twitched like a dead tumor perched with bemusement among the other falsehoods in transit, prank dark matter disembodied from the pornographic animation beamed by an electronic cigarette in Crop Circle plastics instead of smoke rings swelling into the strychnine bonnet of a Rocky Horror Picture Show scream-ensemble above humanoid livestock grazing on all the tea of Mars like Google's air-anatomy perched routinely and flu-like atop the horizontal mental sculpture of a dolphin therapeutically tattooed by Hitler into an illusion of nightmare intercourse acting as Waster of Correlations and murderer of the spirit of beer and pussy.

Wet Wipe Antidepressant

Urinal antlers kneel starving in the salt of invasive television

Jihadists cocked vampire wet by crazy gravitational waves or whatever 

should dildo hysterics?    

Impaled catacombs of rectal radio lust and ravenous webcomic clones 

are all on the same paper?  

Dialing Saw 3D up on the spit of a nude scene to trigger sundry eel-overlap    

Car wash corpses fading into mummified steppes

Pouring bleach from heroin-knit kisses

A fly [citation needed] in the windpipe of the Barbie meatball? 

Humanoid [bipedal] chicken [plural]??

Reconstructing biodiversity at the gaudy hospital party with a dentist's ignorant angst

Acid streaming into the fleshy disfigurement's mold

A joke antidepressant 

Driving, Nodding

Though he meant 'untoward,' Nietzsche put his tractor into 'reverse.'

Well, same thing. Don't worry about it. It's just a headstone

in the shower, bored. Out here on the edge of my world, the WiFi is soothing –

at its core a werewolf is tearing the shower curtain's ever-living Tetris

into pale bumper stickers, real-life memes bunged steamy into rearview

cube-perspectives, choking the very bumper of my Yaris.

'I'm in Hell,' the view of Hell commands. [Driving. Nodding.]

Well hell, you must tilt your head to indicate that you have a sickness. [Asshole.]

If I were a shiny black bug, I'd sexually cope with the indifference

of other shiny black bugs like stuffed coal. Stoned, I once almost electrocuted a

little green bug in my mom's kitchen trying to separate the dark matter from

its small, still-warming body, at midnight. Global warming clings to doughnuts

like a fucking scab. In the “perfect world,” spurts of doughnut breath liquify upon 
hitting a walkie-talkie. Some pigs have autism. Some cows (like me) have never left 
home. Cosmetically, it helps Earth to be just one neat cross-section of ice-cream fossil,

insignificant, vulnerable, naked, weeping garbage-colors into outerspace

like an exploding jukebox in a fairy tale or the village idiot in

an early English novel finding his niche. 

James Franco's Toughened Sexts

The shape hiding amid cuddling clowns

does not exist, only the molecules

worded into agony

The specter of the victim caterpillars up its own skeleton's ass

Ingredients baking in a hot dinosaur-pile

Sexts toughened by the gang-life of metaphor

Nipples twitching from ingesting the narrative

Watching nachos through that low-res gasoline, baby

Sooooooo much uncomfortable code

As the Marvel goat chews a large placebo made of horseshit,

fangirls breathe in its underground personal space through the cereal-scape

Forks balloon like birds, like blood, in a bizarre pinball aftermath

Dangerous fly-pixels haunt James Franco's shit-canvas

Skin, metal, me –

An afflicted firefly lounging on digital furniture

The mesmerizing neighborhood curse foreshadowed by NASA's old psychic slime

White mice that turn everything into triangles grab my ADHD

In the dilapidated dawn, crocodiles poop hard green cookies

I awaken from overdose 

Doom Pee

After saying Greetings, condom forgers of Earth,

the reptilian visitors observe how nicely my handicap is thickening inside the cartoon rift –

the bobble-brick continuum drenched in the fleeting self-consciousness of a whale,

to which teenage lawn rangers symbolically rip segways, in lawns.

Anything distant looks like a gnomish beer can.

Mosaic aliens crank grandma's jam handles ivory

in that pot of sweet stewing bitcoins you'll find at the end of the bitchin' rainbow

that only blazes, diagonally (i.e. the bitchin' rainbow does), in a saint's ghastly golf visor.

“Enemy blimp, cease your Mentos!”

Teabag scrotal meat is ready for human trials. I already boil mine in pure garden condensation.

No more vulgar sheep on potent drugs. Soda tooth bathing gracefully

like an unwell banana, hangman-mixed, in the

mathematical prophylactic.