EASY AMUSEMENT AS GIFT

my parents are proud of giving birth to a vibrant, and pretty stupid stem cell

a transparent hologram covered in motivational hives

invisible only after a dark, depressing shave

I’m sitting in the tiny oval cockpit of the Xanax snowflake poke

I’m a rich bitch swathed in puppy gear

this collar? these buttons?
this boa?

hundred percent puppy  

and somehow I am an interplay between depraved taxidermy and albino ribbons of glass

larval climax all over my chin, quite grim: all objects are seen first through the beard

my husband enjoyed the straight walk over, though – didn’t say hello or nothing

just suddenly climaxed, without provocation or anything

the capsules in your palm are trying really hard to be taboo

they’re not fooling anyone – I think they’re cute

like when he drops a salad bowl on my head

these vortices and parallelograms extended to the house in which I live

this house’s foundations, caught in one of Kubrick’s more gravid plots

and the moon buggy’s physical personal chassis – conducive to comic strandedness

bwa-ha, the crater in his left nostril flange mocked

at night her dreams are infiltrated more by strange garments than the strange creatures wearing them – or she notices them in that order: first the straightjackets, then the inflatable ambitious squid wearing them  

tortured toothpaste is striking exaggerated poses

a voice like sighing MRI says that it is the work of the first-aid Transformer kit:

for the walls are owned differently here – leg-kinked, palsied private collector’s barcode Banksy, ironic flirtation squirming on the Band-Aid

it’s now all about aerosol making up the fog around the gorilla handprint

for each morning her husband wakes her up by placing all his fingers around her face, softly

RANSOM

The brains behind the ransom note clearly suffers from more than just a tad of nostalgia for all things homemade.  

For a start, he almost forgot to ask for money. Allusions to the kidnapped are sketchy at best, meandering and forgetful and indifferent at worst.  

‘I bit my lip,’ it reads in different-sized and colored letters glued lovingly to the paper. ‘The crunchy sound it made reminded me of excavating asbestos – which I’m told is bad for you.’

It is in the feel of the note, the texture, the loving care invested in choosing the letters and fonts, the way they’d been clipped from magazines and newspapers and old birthday cards. It completely dominated and overruled any further drive for some kind of import or statement – not to mention the exact sum of money demanded fell by the wayside in this sick tangential devotion.

‘The importance of Oreos. I cannot overstate it. Its absence. The brain of the individual registering its absence. The physical brain. Imagine the juxtaposition of a casserole and a nightmare. Imagine the two actually MERGING, physically.’

‘Imagine you were made of aluminum. Now, you’re apologizing to your mom – who doesn’t approve of aluminum.’

‘My girlfriend’s stomach changed the Pill: it simply changed the thing. Now some unknown creature or entity or abomination or redeemer or 8-foot tall basketball player inside her sees the light. It will make a glorious cameo in our life – maybe, as whatever it chooses to be its literal manifestation. Then it will go back to its village. Where it is known as the Phantom Thug.’   

‘The Phantom Thug is back!’ the villagers will scream, when they see – or rather when they think they see – him.’

Admittedly, the following sentence is pasted really artfully, its letters collated really lovingly and charmingly:

  

‘Tractors. I don’t know. Their states of mind. It’s not sexy – what I think of when I see a tractor on my uncle’s farm, what I think its state of mind may be. What I see – it’s not sexy. It’s not the embodiment of sexy. No way. It’s not a commercial in any shape, manner of form, for sexy.’

Forensics and handwriting experts and kindergarten teachers good at cut-and-paste stuff and the identification of its possible author, and one or two inhouse anthropologists are scratching their heads over the following line, put down with less punctiliousness: ‘You will miss the real Star Trek.’ The letters get more mangled and squidgy and indeed, some appear to have been pasted to the paper with actual gob, as the sentiment digresses: ‘The old one looked good from Earth; but the new Star Trek unless I’m very much mistaken will look like a diner, and will appear only splendid from the moon. Which is in my backyard, as you know. And which is where I’m keeping our precious YOU KNOW WHAT. In exchange for which I am requesting a sum of money to the tune of YOU ALSO KNOW WHAT.’

Somewhat Facetious Postscript:

‘I am reading this book about the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It’s really long.’  

IN THE LEE OF YOUR DIGITAL

cock colic’s calculus

on hot

months

drawing your chamber, hand,

hair, mouth –

milkshake, just don’t be a stroke

in the shade of the giant woman’s footprint lies the blowjob tennis jaw

saying

‘satisfy my venom

let’s

raptor’

the downhill-attack made me crap myself;

as all things leaning

suffer immeasurable pride

did you know the Big Ben Clock

believes it’s a caveman?

torments and pictures:

remind me again to begin to dislike

the pang of dysfunction

as I’m getting ready to be painful

to the mighty fog machine,

covert is common

as vulnerability is skin-crawling

floating around while remaining

the most obscene, obscure,

a rat, the rat

a Steri Stumpie, may turn out

to be wrong

MOOD LOSING SLEEP OVER STATE OF ITS ENGINE

music as replenishable addiction

dear pedestrians, holding – doing this to the shoulders of depression

above a single special variety of treadmill  

these vulnerabilities are pondered plus the pseudo-dachshund,

doing my hair in a science dream

oodles of devour, sentient broadcast tower spliced into ascension

eaten by its own mutant infrastructure

why do I think it’s either a detailed kidney or a Venn bloodbath?

the I-badly-want-to-die theme park, candy floss bobbing on the fist of the wandering marsupial cosmonaut

ticking UFO, its collective meat

those sickly projectiles, with the power of the mind

stop crying, explored (stop crying explored), its chain of cause and effect

anesthetizing, such as when the fortune teller takes off her pants

showing us how to make gravity a sin

SAD MEN

What should I ask the gentle coffee mug?

It is a vegetable not from here.

Children of the underclass hazing the robot uprising.

Gnarly immune semi-automatic eater.

Fringe-tractor beam 666 thread.

Please earmark Simone.

Bugged bugging buggering candy.

The oxymoron has friends.

I am not to blame for the duke’s flamboyant taste in women.

Inappropriate Blade Runner chic.

Hamfisted revolution.

Draws attention to its turtleneck.

Priceless effluent slated for black market.

The duchess’s absurd cellulite fills pawnbroker with joy.

Throwing your ghost.

It narrowly misses friendly stork on the roof.

The duke’s brain tumor grows.

As a mythological figure it fucking blows.

HOLD THE LINE MR GALLIANO

new ‘pixels from water’ and evil to me

I halfway grasp the kinky gift troll-in-shopping-cart 

membrane-tweak wasted on what is still essentially an ethnic supercomputer

lab mice home theatres – a whittling down of analog sensations

defrocking sanatorium corset 

deep-cleansed feces of racist muse

poor customer service for navigating bloodclot nebulae

ask ‘em how to dress your dog

how to recognize the familiar face Galliano glazed in head lube,

or what character assassination may go well with

(orange?)

or what – if any –

evil is implied in ‘pixels from water’

CHINA WAS MADE AT HOME

The gurney, if she turns her head, offers sceneries

to the weird girl, heaps of algorithm her life in binary,

layered lasers wanting everything – at times

melting within the Buddha canister moaning

‘Now my pullover is so good, I’m going to give

it to a sick body the sick body who said she wanted

it!’ No more sculptured sunburn, feeling like

Emily Brontë’s talcum foot on her bed the silent claw 
at the valve sharing orbits.

No more suppression of China, home's homemade creation.   

A samurai-conducting gurney on which to teach

the sick and the lonely to love in every avenue,

with much yodeling underlying convictions that

that was an odd thing to say, i.e. ‘Burger King

interferes with the world’s fastest group sex.’ Vistas in

which pancakes are given more room for maneuver;

cephalopods in worlds. The type of uncertainty elevated

to exactly your height gurney height. Even though

you’re not sure whether it’s just Chlamydia’s paranoia

or genetically modified Earl Grey.