CRETACEOUS TOPLESS

Certain cosmetic disorders that we have

and that we share with other things are

beneficial to my partner and I.

Our convex intelligence fits well into any warped ebook.

Tetris blocks and the fibers poking from

their aging graffiti – the sun's surface's myriad colors and sounds

and smells rot beautifully on such streaked, blurry gravity.

I cut my nails; the damage was extensive.

Neon fingernail clippings and the sounds of disembowelment

and decapitation that tended their removal – i.e. sensory material

my synesthesia typically disassembles in poop.

We have evolved certain bodily functions useful to meth addicts

as biomechanical gadgets. 

 

Crayons unearthed in obesity; obesity with augmented suction cups.

Dancing dwarfs – and the exhibition of other curiosities – produced

inside the body.

A new form of newspaper that gives everybody else asthma.

My partner stood facing our bedroom wall for three hours

and got a bicycle via osmosis.

To others this would be a despicable feeling.

She doesn't want me to have some of her fingernail clippings.

Fingernail clippings should close into the body.

Unlike ephemera that spring open, that most prevent

dinosaurs from relaxing – cretaceous and topless – and sometimes

lead to ejaculation.

SIDE-EFFECT

Cured or

Cursed or

Caused by

Ramones:

The weird sound of his wallet chain.

In fact the whole of Sherlock Holmes is taken up by other parts.

One side effect of his dress/manner: pissed-on stuffing.

Berlin: space aliens.jpg

SHOPPERS MAKE ME NAUSEOUS

A meaningful conversation

Subdued the huge Toys “R” Us question mark

Standing sun-bleached and sprinkler-dirtied

In our flowerbed

On the patio

Explode your fanny pack,

A clinking most dangerous

The Mysterious:

Its neglect of personal care,

Out of bed-crazed

But sweet, Victorian GPS – it sounds when guiding us

Like singing in the shower.

For it sounds like a wet navel,

Burbling

Pinching bubblewrap its circuitry

Reacts like amoeba androids' collective face-

spasm

Greasy on the fingers of the mind

Of the Lost Stomach:

It cannibalizes Muppets

When nauseous the stomach wears

its plush murder jacket 

 

Crowds make each individual of which it

consists nauseous

Accessibility of the sun's black glow

Like their innermost secret's door:

Toasters both hairy and hairless beneath the cognitive paper parachute

Man, shoppers make me miserable

BRAIN CRAP

Show me the horrifically mangled fleshlight now please.

The traditional healer was ruminating a carrot in his cheek.

What the hell happened to this thing?

Who would do such a thing to a blameless object like this?

Answer: no one. It accidentally got driven over by a car.

I was at the dramatic unveiling of an ancient fossilized clubfoot.

How had the foot been dismembered? Gunpowder,

not the monstrous assortment of baked goods in the company canteen,

inspires grabbing.

Somewhere, a handicapped Wagnerian robot in lingerie

is begging on a street corner. A dishcloth over its missing

foot. This is how this unfortunate robot will probably lose its dildo, too.

You just have to sit there looking sad like that, dejected,

downtrodden – random things fall out of your possession.

The explosions ring in your ears for an eternity.

'I performed IT customer service uncontrollably,' it moans to passersby,

'then amped up my natural inclination to hold a grudge,

then to murder, then to suddenly turn nice again, then finally

to take a stroll, a nap, to awake and to start the whole sordid routine

over again.'

Very soon, it begins to mesmerize with its demeanor changing

by indiscernible degrees. It's crying again. It's holding a latte.

There's the slow-motion quality to the robot's movements,

that prevents it spilling its latte.

Psychoanalytic energies spent on a Sasquatch are mostly redundant.

The modern Sasquatch, a slumped sack of Happy Meal dead skin,

informs a cartoon about workaday stress with hilarity.

A vegetable – the plant, not the idiot grinning into the web cam – is bleaching,

really bleaching, its skin turning a ghostly white –

the scientists gathered around it announce somberly that the higher IQ

they've imparted to it must be responsible for the vegetable's weird,

lardy color.

This way, in every office around the world,

brainmatter craps all day.

MEDICALLY CORRECT

'I'm pretending to be thankful for the convoluted series of flashbacks

I'm having now' – we're stoned, Eric has a bowl of chips on

his stomach - 'of the time my cock was stuck in another dimension -

I find myself now appreciating its navigational skills.'

'Shut up, haha.'

'I have such a strong dependency on the fragments, mainly, of video games.

'Just the beautiful fragments,' he adds.

He's too stoned to play video games in their entirety. He starts in the middle

of levels; blinking, time has elapsed and he's battling the final boss.

He retches inappropriately.

I'm squinting long and hard at the AK47 propped up against the television set: yeah, looking at it this way, it seems pretty insane.

Don't look at me that way!

We are bank robbers. We smoke a lot of pot.

'Eating these chips and feeling it on my tongue, it's like splashing a

fart – splashing many farts – on a big, old blimp.'

'I'd like to animate a tomato and splice it with artificial intelligence.'

'They don't make 'em the way they used to, do they?'

We talk about chips a lot.

My boyfriend's cock is pierced in a hundred places.

His cock therefore whistles. The inadequate terms he uses for his singing,

spade-shaped cock: 'Farmer.' 'Karaoke master.' 'Singing upright gentleman digger.' And one I could never understand: 'Nazi nigger.'

'Its health benefits through osmosis. Fucking's.'

The piercings precipitate the osmosis.

'A sock's burger retention – if one were to stuff a sock with a burger –

I'd appreciate such levels of perseverance.'

'Of the type of sock that retains. That doesn't leak burger.'

I'm so stoned, and I have a headache. It's effervescing. My head's

shampooing itself with a crowbar. It likes to self-medicate.

I think the brutality is unnecessary.

'I'm gonna sit outside,' he says. I see that he cannot get up.

'Haha.'

'I think,' he says, 'I think for one's butt to freeze on cold stone is very wrong.'

'You can sit on the hammock.'

'I hate it when you say that.'

'I can sit on a hammock.'

'No one can. It's not a hammock if you're allowed to do that.'

Our human ancestors had whiled away their time deciding

whether to watch bacteria rotate on their dingy personal belongings

the whole day long, or whether to just fuck instead.

Such machinations also happen to be my and Eric's forte.

He's retching again. Inappropriately.

'I find it medically accurate that Tetris blocks squelch when they land.'

DEATH'S VOYEURISM

Gasp for heartbeat hologram

after she

dies.

Carve out humans 

from

scratch.

The new Adopter's love for

an

anti-spray-on

supernatural.

The source is a medical appliance, placed on rollers.

Ingested

sonic

ocean:

an accidental

arrangement

containing a

spleen.

Lost its Guy Fawkes-themed aesthetic, over time.

Have

cotton candy's

conductive properties

merged

into

a constructive criticism

of strange

haircut?

Tried to rationalize trash's designated role in telekinesis.

Shelter

broken down

under

occupants' sleep

apnea.

After

subjection

to too

much

voyeurism,

the figures emerged,

hunched, in

X-ray steam.

THE MILLENNIUM FALCON'S TIRE TRACKS

Swiss shoes are bottomless, and therefore a very relaxing and

comfortable environment. But they keep the time obnoxiously.

Their ticking is obnoxious. A peculiar ringing, like a ray gun fired

down a well. The OCD synchronicity of one's strides.

Anderson Cooper digs Swiss shoes; but he can't afford them.

Instead, his one foot is perennially planted in a cupcake. Which he

also digs. Cupcakes. And make no mistake.

I was a lonely kid just like Anderson motherfucking Cooper.

The lonely kid sees his fishbowl throbbing.

Lonely kids see such things. It's from putting odd objects in

their fishbowls. A symptom of their loneliness.

The world repays us this way: avenues meet this way.

Collision courses can be arbitrarily set, but only when

nothing around us happens or when we don't do anything.

Take the time the bookshelf came into violent contact with the antlers.

No one in the vicinity of the bookshelf OR the antlers had

been doing anything at the time. No one had been reading any

of the bookshelf's books.

Give me five minutes to commit cliched vices on the street corner.

See the slew of events I'd set off this way.

Every action has its reward. Oh, how I love the mathematics behind

tripping over an object in the road – a tricycle lying on its side

on the pavement, etc. - and falling on my mouth.

Just a year ago, I was an ugly baby growing in the back of a limo.

I wasn't conscious for the most part. But felt the drama of my development.

Each stem cell – snugly cored with a sleeping pill.

The drama of my monstrous slumber. My supermodel grandmother sitting in

the back with me, in her bikini. A Scientologist who shared Scientology's

bitter disdain for pepper spray. Who scratched all over, as if she had fleas.

Whose vision crawled under its flaming rash.

With knives and forks pinned into our eyes we may see in terms

of light years. The human cornea can arrange cutlery locally.

Such vision not surprisingly makes our eyes bleed.

Mild home items, still nefarious in how they bounce back

to their original locations after use. Spontaneously.

Without first waiting to be washed.

That is why our eyeballs mud up suddenly after eating so much,

and why, afterward, equally suddenly, we see the Millennium Falcon's long blue tire tracks.