THE BABYSITTER

Anime family life's smell

reminds me of the forbidden

skull milk product.

Anime father shot himself,

Anime mother's motto was 'Headless in his suffering.'

'Like waterboarding a shirt.'

'The dalliance is a waste product.'
'Brimming with protozoa

is dangerous.'

A mashed kitten personifies

inertia in the music of ABBA, as it does

in the babysitter-chronic metropolis,

every surface of privacy

banged by its brain power:

That's an order, says such traffic.

The tendency of a sealed contraceptive

to pocket-morph into seminal mist. Of an old person

to try and sanctify themselves

with the dubstep. Irresistibly luscious

only in full frontal. Turned ninety degrees:

gone.

On any given night, hungry vacuums in

the babysitter's infection sip milk through

a flat mask.

Slowly withdrawing lips

from a scenery first wan, then overcrowded with

fountains of blood. 

IS IT FAKE?

A bit of unclean invocation and a cup holder,

and you have the entire set of Star Wars, actors, droids,

ships, helmet sweat. Fake? One lousy PEZ dispenser

can procure gallons of Hulk vomit. Is it fake?

A bit of angel undernail rot, harvested from grimy pages in

the comics section, laundered and worn as sort of panties –

the librarian's special exo-church; sitting in them

reading, something brings her back to her origins, something holy.

A beautiful stem cell glare around the region of her crotch.

Is this fake?

The cowboy wears fake socks – but they are not fake.

Or are they? They ought to smell comparatively OK, or at least they ought

to smell like nothing, instead a mixture of subway smells billows around them.

The voice of a kettle keeps his stupid horse immensely bloated.

The horse is definitely fake.

A pocket knife was all the geneticist needed to cut his housekeeper open,

and a blue-red cyber coil subsequently sprang up at him –

driving home the conclusion that the housekeeper was fake.

A computer simulation, maybe. The whole DNA looked suspicious.

The whole fucking geneticist himself looked fishy:

tombstone haircut post-sex pizza anomaly. That's some fake shit

right there. Mood-bombed synapse right-click. Imminent infinitesimal.

Imminent birth. Small but steadily coming into being.

For what? For whom? For his housekeeper? She only likes computer games. 

MY LAWNMOWER DID THE TOE A FAVOR

I jotted down the date on a calendar my lawnmower lost its shit.

Psychotic confetti viscerally bubbling up –

the slaughtered watermelon in 8-bit stemming from dark dreams

hitting the window leaving its irremovable pale-pink gore.

Only many years later, I licked the window. And got sick.

Therapy in prison. In a controlled setting.

Observing its placid expression, I was reminded of preserved meat;

I thought of brain damage hanging from hooks.

Its nipple-like haircut on the pub-green gas tank: really,

nothing this closely ever resembled a barbershop maggot's.

Mood of user of lawnmower typically heightened.

Mood of user typically oscillating between

marching band and spaceship mini golf –

but no more!

A seriously cool prison mugshot of the lawnmower, though -

so notorious around the neighborhood,

one seriously badass animatronic pig skeleton –

before it was fed countless placebos accessorized

with prison food – attempting the futile voyage

into the deeper regions of the beast's psychic botulism.

Though by now a mummy and positively repulsive, any

social situation to the toe it had lopped off, meanwhile,

is an opiate; the toe can scarcely move, so cripplingly

gregarious it has become, since its dismemberment.

Even though social pleasures to the toe don't easily cloy,

the next morning it's still so many wrinkles in green leather.

14 January 1996.

SUPER MARIO – ANOTHER MUTATION

The warm toilet seat morphology,

Super Mario's bumprint at its most distilled.

Not the grossest thing to ever follow

the princess into a bathroom.

Lab-grown malevolence – whether merely in

the form of this peculiar haunting, or variously manifesting

as personalized Hefner bathrobes plucked from graves,

very Hobo DIY – never sleeps.

And the Eureka Moment: toadstool piss emptied

into Xbox demon bucket.

Wavered a sec when said toadstool snapped underfoot.

Removed the berserk neurotoxin from the

gentle powder and rolled it into a

pale statue – voodoo nutrients rendered quite upskirt dog toy. 

BLADE RUNNER

Do you think they're fake,

Blade Runner? Do you think

they're incapable of real kindness?

Look at the garish thrush, caused by

realism doodling deep 

into the replicant's mouth.

Automotive, your crotch soaked through

with Chinese takeout, rising

on a parking lot from the deep.

Viaduct cables cutting light from a moon not

unromantic in her body –

fluorescent G-spot nebula.

The affliction of a

porn star Ninja Turtle, its shell

an improbable gag for a larger underground.

In silent reflection press

a synthetic aroma, cook pajama pants

with an eating disorder that

loads a fast food chain's grotesque finger,

empathy burping blank.

A nervous breakdown in your Stormtrooper shell

rattling empty because loose BBs are the devil in you.

Ritual is cement. Curb all that's missing

from being nice. Redeem yourself, jerk.

IN MORDOR

In Mordor lived a crackpot visionary,

who sought a formula for cotton wool to heal around a soldering iron.

The system was badly perforated, gradually bodily waste

began drooling down the urban sensory nerve -

it was impossible to send his feelers out

Peeping-Tomming on the buxom women

of Hobbiton. Surreptitious suffering behind foggy monocle,

one eardrum, sallow, whimsically popping, and proving totally uncontainable

at its lonely altitude. The day you die: something stupid leaving a trail of blood.

NO ONE TOLD ME IT WOULD MAKE ME BLIND

Only resident soon will be an anthropomorphic British clam

Planet acne's tableau relentlessly peppered

Torrid sun floating up from another level of asbestos

Aphrodisiac tuned across ages but a poisoned pea

leads to stringy skeletal epilepsy blindness cataract-

kilowatts of cappuccino dreck

Masturbation cavorting with variations of depressing spacesuit

Spinach accentuating Popeye's pores is very very nice for him

The terrarium, the patch of green, the crater of clay,

that tennis ball bicep is supernaturally hoisted from