DON'T LOOK NOW BUT THERE'S WALL FUNGUS BEHIND YOU

ON ANOTHER PLANET – ANOTHER MUTATION

every song is on the B-side

spent cornflakes are reusable

people cry turds

in prisons, turds are cried quickly

people are garbage

no, really – they're garbage

contusions when garbage blossoms

fart-like tumors when garbage blossoms garbage

morals stomped on by a garbage teapot

teapot puffs – more black teapot smoke – more teapot mass

crime and death happening at a frequency at which a paint chip can cut a finger

fraud, failure, and really telling the plumber that when it has been raining, water

seems to collect somewhere in the dildos he'd cobbled together

and water rushes out and usually onto my feet

I run the bath in a frenetic state, mysteriously

on another planet

like the Sarlacc, his tendrils only calmed after swallowing a Coke can

ghost transmissions issued by thousand year-old bicycle parts

on another planet

the staff at all Pizza Huts poison the knobs on all pizzas

pizzas have knobs that can be tweaked

animated GIFs are dumb, and primarily depict grass cutters

sand cutely tumbles down the funnel gradients

towards where more sand is having some kind of nervous breakdown

fleeing, fleeing anything: it feels like fleeing a global outbreak of

microscopic metal clamps

looking smug in your trailer – but you're just one of the

thousands fleeing in their stupid trailers

you live on another planet

fleeing with a smug facial expression

reflecting on how unfair it is that conjoined T-bones or butterflies

enjoy a symmetry far superior to their human counterparts

how vaporizing a pigeon exacerbates the Darkness

how lest it breaks or snaps, Styrofoam cannot be 'unfurled'

unless by a weird, disturbing magic

the janitor standing in the middle of the basement,

at our school, stands there alone like that when no one's watching –

it's also magical, and on another planet

PAVLOV'S ZOMBIES

in a shallower medium, our collective free will pleats

cow head mega-swarm

grainy genes, but dragging an Oreo's smooth shadow

a personality's burst of tiles

finally: thought absence

abstract helmet, space reanimator in meat

dispenser of a battery of exits

exercise noodles' physical application

199986.66

shark-nosed blipping underwater sensor

detects the leg of a woman

anarchism when my skirt's lifted over my head

gruesome mail falls out

blackout

on the nylon clock pivots the frog's sexy robotic arm

Pavlov's zombies

didn't like the cupcake's electrical shock

I watched them afterward rewarded with engulfment,

cube-sized, at the narcolepsy accelerator

thick fauna dry ass psycho-analysis conducts well in

SHITTING IN A TARDIS

Smoke unhinged, just a medical symptom,

through which the mad millions don't notice

the squeaky toy self-healing – an extempore

effigy they've each skewered with a match.

A priest nearby observes that it no longer “makes a

noise like a squeaky toy.” It sounds like a wind chime

that has sustained some kind of trauma. “No,”

comes a mocking voice. “It sounds like a nun masturbating.”

In the mirror an aged, senile Humpty Dumpty says:

“I want a portal gun for my amazing corona of hair.”

Though such a device would facilitate clever shortcuts

in the hivemind, some quarters would stretch on

forever. Walled-off brick avenues. Amnesia

emphasizing non-electric brain-events. Spider crumb,

built from an accumulation of moonshine.

Micheal Myers puts constraints on his llama.

His llama is his bacon. The new complimentary

sauce is a pain killer. His bloodied victims regain consciousness,

always, via a gentle swab of a wet wipe.

You realize that if all your organs were

in slow motion, something fast is always gonna

interfere. With increased height off ground, Humpty Dumpty

looks more decadent, his chin more like balls.

His awful mastery of staircases. Time. Paranoia.

Picture him taking a big dump in a Tardis.

HOME-IMPROVEMENT LEAVES BLOODSPATTER

Can't ignore the breath of fresh air, in

immersive forgetfulness. The temperature of

a hand glazes the tungsten wire in your dessert.

Heat from a Muppet. An eerie environmental glow.

Questioning your own sanity when, by looking at

the unwashed dishes with your X-ray eyes,

seeing a psychedelic vulture. Grim perceptions of

other worlds make one talk backwards, like

extraterrestrials. Getting laid worries geographical

formations of slices. Groans from

rearrangement of something multi-faceted.

A series of events triggers a hypochondriac's

fake fever; two hours spent in a traffic jam

instills a lifelong fear of his own forward-facing

furniture. He's been seen through the window by

neighbors perching darkly on the sofa's

back. It's more whimsical than certain domestic

recurrences: the hammer ambulating around in a

bathrobe looks merely comfortable.

ALIVE BUT WITH ONE OR TWO COMPLAINTS

Sorry about the shitty necromancy. But are you glad

you're alive again? You're undoubtedly feeling a little numb,

eager to have better quality of sensation. As for obsessing about home,

family, the old tree house overlooking the fence,

for now, you're capable of doing that with your tail only.

Thirsty? It's quite poetic to call your thirst 'colorful.'

It shows hopefulness – to allude to more variegated recesses of

the esophagus per drop of water. Horny?

Your junk's watts slobber ellipses like

dull tenement windows in earth, angry faces

peering out perfectly spaced. Angry?

I would be. Dyspepsia is weaker east of the stomach.

Anyway, you seem to be heading there, like a rill crawling up

out of a bog, slowly becoming a blur with its dimensions creased

in jolly interface.

WATCHING GRASS GROW

To the folks at the asylum, not even slow grass

looks like an afterthought. Unless a large object

crushes it. Pixar is a dented dispenser, about to throw

up. The dent causes jet propulsion. Every movement

is sped up by a nanosecond. After each frame is a subliminal

blank. Mars leaving a smear right in the eye line. Banal like

the shoulders of the Kool-Aid Man. The roots of the grass

surrounding the asylum wriggle for increased access;

finding most anything accessible, thus cutting into lawn chairs,

legs, drilling through the filmy layer above the water

of the fish pond. A bolt embedded in wax fruit.

Cannot be undone, like a baptism. A future event

that will mark. The ape's ear piercing is from the future.

The one is stuck in the other. A same sex marriage

translating into a blessing's strange noise.

The magistrate's forehead with thoughts happening

behind it in his prefrontal cortex sounds like an elevator.

The Walkman suits the sandwich. Levels stealing

each other's reflections. Passing static from one

level to the next. Wax fruit is real, perfect fruit reincarnated.

Cannot be undone.