I SHOOT SOMNAMBULISTS

foreskin ultrasounds look very hybrid sock-middle finger

catching fire, filthy thoughts'

neon cognitive brace;

cold love passing through wiggling gills

accept your fate, Satan: entombed, loud,

ugly, uncaring,

edible, why not?

went from treacle

in TV commercial

to folded more flat,

cavities in sound-deadening material

sick-spattered on sanatorium walls;

sleepwalking ghosts

appeared angled

ARE YOU OBLIVIOUS TO THE SUFFERING OF YOUR PETS?

While the rivers' stitches were coming apart,

and coal was losing its luster to some kind of

hungry fever, the Zulu found the dentist's tooth-broom

interface fun, as he did all other consumer electronics.

Pumpkin chest hair was the best at signaling a daily life

of hysteria phonetically. Rust generated mermaid temperatures.

They both used orange gristle.

In prehistoric unitards, we go to robots' funerals –

only the gnome priest is allowed to sport his mink coat.

We mourners are afforded a glimpse into a stereoscope:

we see automaton hearts beating in a mesh,

diseased-looking like a toad's death-roar, straining against a 3D

rash. Skin heated up in a noose. Algae

self-atomizing and thereby melting the glass

of the abandoned vending machines they choose

to fornicate in.

Out of how many bars has the now-teenaged Bart Simpson

been kicked because of his inappropriate leggings?

PINBALL PLASMA

But some visual displays are hidden by the bikini.

An apparent flower in a balaclava!

We leave, because the sofa is looming – being a Transformer,

at one point in its metamorphosis it was just springs

and upholstery, a straight-jacketed spiral, like a fire extinguisher

running amok through a mall. Turbines for haunches. Annoying. 

“It must,” she says, “at least on some level, be relaxing for a

Tourettes-afflicted ninja to deploy Play-Doh

instead of the usual throwing star.”

So we tried it out at my desk. It was a normal writing desk,

where instead of throwing stars we discovered moth fibers

damming up under the lamp. I placed my mug in it, to keep it level.

“You thought you were looking at a regular espresso machine, eh eh.”

(EH? EH?)

I kept laughing even as she asked, to evade notice of the

pinball plasma of activity on my desk:

“Do coasters regenerate? My dad was an alcoholic, right? And he went

through coasters like anything.”

“Whatever process this would entail, I'm sure it would just

result in another giant fried egg.”

(I'M SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR DAD.)

The sofa was behaving normally and we were sitting on it: it was

relaxing. “Isn't it weird how certain foodstuffs make you wipe

your ass with more than the usual haste?”

TANGIBLE COW, ETC

Carrion has a shelf life, marked by a systematically

louder series of Wilhelm Screams. Upon final complete

expiration, it sounds like raisins sucked up by

a vacuum cleaner. What awe-inspiring music!

How forlorn yet clownishly upbeat! In death, you

begin to itch. All the molecules pause like fridge magnets –

meaning they're not quite dead!

And poking from your chest is a spider leg of

breath, testing its new roaming grounds...

I kept hallucinating this certain weird motion,

I kept imagining or hallucinating that it existed

secretly in every teaspoon. Or concavely: i.e. exquisitely shallow

surgical procedures on a lollipop. Giving off fumes.

Being marginally too close to each other, cracks

open and leak entrails everywhere.

People that work at abattoirs know this motion;

the French see its skid marks on guillotines.

In the corner of every doctor's waiting room is either a

bendy avant-garde artwork or a molecular

ball and stick model describing this boneless exit.

VUVUZELAS CONVERGED ON GOTHAM CITY

And now the sprinkler's constipated.

A sparrow walks, then bounces, then casts

the shadow of its tail across the lawn,

funny despite the butthole.

There's a plane: it's the muddy sky pushing

a travel pillow like a crucifix underpants floatation.

The blemish's exposed wires. That's not a normal

on switch, Scooby Doo.

If you moisturize it, a vuvuzela can produce

echolocation second only to Batman's.

If it's a bedpost, you'll lose consciousness.

Mired in what the villain, a gimp whose small plastic

fittings that held him to the floor had failed, putters

rather than flails around in.

BECKETT'S FETUS

every towel looks older than it is

I didn't realize this until I took ownership of a pair of hind legs

enzymes without craniums glance over their shoulders

toadstools perpetuated into the Ten Commandments' multiplex,

nipples intestinally, 3 children & stuff, and this new care about monsters

we all want them to be in us, their reflection rotted badly upon ingress,

with a hairless saber tooth epilating

the marquee of warts on the mystical latex

THE SUPER BOWL

With a subterranean swell, the Super Bowl has released its biblical heartburn. In

the midst of this tiny orgy of Third Reich sneaker particles, someone's sleepy puppy has been re-animated. An ex-wrestler has plugged a sieve with his face, filling its windows with yellow nausea. Even though he's saying something, it's impossible to lipread what. Profuse sweating. His whole face now resembling a beached chin. Something sinister about the Transformer's friendliness to the left of me, dumping gears with the same slow lethargy as the handshake of the Sith Lord to the right of me. What will so many people think of my thoughts? Can't find a shred of tinfoil anywhere, so toilet paper will have to suffice as insulation for my beehive; with its interstellar radio text, and strategically pinned smiley faces, it is the most voluble, tittle-tattly telepathy machine in New Jersey – but otherwise a great depository for Kellogg's Corn Flakes.