PEEPSHOW

In the beginning it felt like alligator cancer. What kind of escape is shooting a grappling hook into Urban Outfitter’s ceiling? The sanctuary turns out to be an average peepshow. I accepted the delirium at the end of this tooth. A penguin lassoed is a Jungian archetype speaking snuffbox: ‘Help me, brown spores – you’re my only hope.’ Burn down power with waste. John Travolta’s scoliosis debilitates his brutality so that he’s twice as likely to utter platitudes to his hostages. 

CREEPING ECLIPSE

cloudy with a chance of seat belts
a necessary evil since the weatherman did more than just eclipse the bubble of my dangerous, accelerating engrossment with him – he in fact totally exceeded my interest, like an exploding athlete 
he wouldn’t move initially, then it looked as though he was going to turn around and run full-speed into the screen, sputtering darker and darker pixels all the time
but at other times he grew so large and interesting, that – like a fascinating pop-up store on a rescue float chasing pirates instead of landlords who swap clemency for blowjobs – the clouds on the screen would respond like wet feathers to his proximity
‘putting my hand here on this glacier,’ he said running his hand along a blue line with pointed teeth, ‘would be like touching SOMEBODY ELSE’S glacier’
he was a creepy haze in an envelope – misty fingers curled around the edges, and he was so flat and no longer quite as interesting
i lowered my dress before somebody had a chance to walk in

SIGNIFYING DRUGS

My home collection is a veritable monument to the subversion of the Neo-Bong, a breed of new dope smokers who smoke with government permission and have a choice between fashionable designer bongs from Omega to Louis Vitton to Diesel to Esprit to Ed motherfucking Hardy. Nothing is placed here without permission from the thoughts happening between my Mars Muffs – simple ear muffins I bought and suped up to resemble high-tech bathplugs. I never smoke without them because they look cool and keep my thoughts from escaping and contaminating the street decor outside. While I may wear Martian earplugs, I no longer sell Martian bongs, nor for reactionary reasons display them on the pavement on a rickety fold-up table. But in my Martian Attack Car – it was bought on violentuniverse.com; oh, and it also attacks anything in sight – I traveled to the Yup! Groceries rendezvous, located in the nastiest public swamp, which the public consciousness sinks into on a continual basis but smartly pokes its head out again in anticipation of waking up next to you. 

SHAKEN IN A JAR

Swan sulfur, kicked up by the lake after the meteor’s pounce.
We won’t be having a good holiday on the lethal perimeter.
There are too many coffins beaching themselves and our little
schnauzer will be disturbed. Send us a Confucian holiday card –
our memories won’t auto-erase when his sculptural finger
has strolled over to add another hit number to ‘The
Greatest Moments in Frisking.’

It won’t happen.

I might with all this confusion going on rebrand myself as
The Army of the Willow Tree – alien dishonor is overdue, I’ve
got several dozen fridge dial interpretations right here, so my
shit’s backed up. We’re coming with the Moscow Monobrow
to trap a warrior in a barbershop.

CATHOLIC GUILT: WROUGHT FROM TENNIS BALL FIBER

It dawned on the Eggnog that it missed its home planet. It got that HIV-positive shine – it was sick but radiant, was collapsing like a chin in glitter. On the other hand it could always dance. Sort of. Well, with a fast finger you could easily buy a few Salsa Rarities on Monster’s toast. 

In the garage, the coolant sat still with its venereal warts. Every day so far this has been its petty thrill – its Junk In Catholic Trinket. The Boink’s Carbolic Shrink-It. As seen on cleaning products: that very specific gleam on its Chain link. 

Played chicken with Borg Mobile™ home. Demand froze for banana fiber’s ‘Candle In The Wind.’ As sung by Steppenwolf, who chanted ‘I never asked for a Japanese divorce under Brash stars’ Milky Cow.’ Written by Wasp Clash Tennis racquet. The D-minor soul-cry of very on-grid toilet paper.

BLONDE GADDAFI

I remember being shocked that first time learning about transistors. Monolithic bees hectored each other for the quickest effective switch. ‘Electrocution glands’ – these things were key, and they beautifully made way for small, up and coming ones like rampant nipples. It was like walking through a microscopic room; but you were a beekeeper mutilating triangular switches into yourself to avoid similar-shaped stabs. I remember I had no scruples, in my shock, calling bees ‘bugs.’

But once in a nightmare I was a sniffer dog that had a thing for licking xylophones and biting off curtains. Transistors have gates and this was how I navigated my way through them. It was all fake, the xylophones too, which was why my barks pumped off Tyra Banks quotes from that show on which she fell and, getting up and rubbing her head, said her ‘concussion’s defect was a merry kiosk on a psych ward’ – a cold spot on the sun, the unintended friendly utterance to an enemy. Toxic therapy could be transported on the backs of toy trucks driven by Gadaffi in a movie she called – I swear to God she called it this – A BLONDE SCI-FI MOVIE. Only because apparently Gadaffi himself was blonde in it? Therefore not a … rogue?

I woke up so rattled. I was late for my flight and had to run all the way across the runway and got licked up by the airplane’s tongue – a great wet happy slobbering tongue emitted from the gaping ‘mouth’ below the cockpit. It was warm and cozy and slimy whereas the rest of the plane was icy cold and metallic and gray, which was why everybody inside was wearing sweaters but a few were gashed through with epic cleavages. An android’s bristly iron shavings were trying to pass themselves off as authentic chest hairs through the split in one of the sweaters in the rows of seats I espied after flopping via the happy tongue into the plane. Smoke disquiet, android. With your electric cigarette or whatever. They’re allowed on planes. But feeling-powered amoebae aren’t directing your evolution like they’re doing our movies, fucker.

SMALL ROCK SICK

‘Thank you, stage magician.’ ‘You’re welcome, airborne gift in sputnik wrapping paper.’ Kill me now Plutooooooo! Ooh my feet are cold, and my toes multiply, in your epidemic atelier! I cannot work in this place! Jail Declares Loss even though I’m merely hanging here – from your ceiling, waving – not small, not a rock, not sick. How else did I survive while everyone else was massaging their scalps with typhoid hair gel? Abstinence. Infamously known as the hypnotic condom. How come I’m such a good actor? Wiccan cat puke – that unearthly extension of Old Tricks. Bambi written in very depressing code. With in-depth knowledge of deer, bafflement came to us. Here’s my advice to the PR team of anyone caught fighting an Oscar trophy – don’t drown yourself in a punch bowl. It’s embarrassing, and such antics on the office carpet can ruin your career, but be more afraid of the bowl’s candid deep zoom. ‘I tried to save them,’ were his last words. Words better protected than embarrassment. Memorable events of the pallbearers preserved on YouTube; depraved CEOs use these clips as lessons in elitism. ‘Where have you been my whole life?’ ‘Excited by Pol Pot.’ ‘That far?’ Of illusion counterclockwise on my coffee.