CHURCH IN A POWER PLANT

After too much glue, your morning toast is non-retractable.

Your leg lopsided in gypsum with sadistic constipation.

In the bathroom, you train your BB gun on the woolly mammoth.

Singing:

“Sweets in jars paradizing all power plants /

a new church worms can adorn!”

“And maybe on opening day / a dead squirrel can do a striptease!”

It's difficult to get through the day because of the

stepladder's interchangeable rungs; every stranger's language

lends strings to the carnivorous marionette.

It would be pleasant to fuck everything while remaining

invisible. Egg carton kept the Predator invisible while it

was fucking Arnold Schwarzenegger. Egg on toast

on glue, on your scorch.

It would be really great to adapt more smoothly.

Swamp Thing's driftwood appendix moonlit as a flute.

His complex slimy movable parts distracted a group of

Boy Scouts. Well, using this same principle, and borrowing

a little from Jane Fonda's advice to her congregation –

“You don't have to be afraid of everything” - I'm going

to go out and do a little distracting of my own, starting

with putting on my fur coat and flashing impressionable 
upstarts at the local Vegan coffee shop.

JERSEY SHORE - ANOTHER MUTATION

the cast of Jersey Shore

puts their cock on a transparent pin

in the kitchen sink

it characteristically bobbles around;

until the pin multiplies into a general oily 'surface,'

the cock feels trapped by no-vision

when the oil starts shaking away from its direction,

the cock crawls around everywhere

– a hairbrush in pursuit –

smearing a whole floor...

FUDGE

a valve hisses, intermingled

with something fluty, a spiraling no-sound,

infusing panic in

the wrist

always where there's evil,

muppets medically accordion

on their god-hand

screaming: “it feels like foreign meat hinge

“on my face and peel from holes

“like a ski-masked robber's nose!”

a cocktail umbrella

plummets awkwardly

down to Miss Piggy's

hooves...

the hand's horse-knees' sensitivity to stockings;

their heads covered in lipstick hives;

reading their scalps with internal fingers,

the hand feels deep underground

the presence of Elmo the janitor,

in love with his mind,

“luring me like ancient

roadkill fudge in a vat”

MANSON'S 4 BAD FINGERS

I always wanted to be a professional bumper-car driver.

One luxury only afforded professional bumper-car drivers

is this new toilet seat jelly any humanoid form

in a shitting demeanor can be comfortably positioned shitting

and relaxing on, until falling asleep.

You even get special migraines as a bumper-car driver, relieved

by playing Pong on your iPhone until the pungent smell of mothballs

makes your migraine seem resistant to its own mass.

You know when soap opera writers seem to run out of ideas?

I always wanted to insinuate myself into that point in

a soap opera where the show climaxes in a series of “dream reversals”:

where she gets the handsome unshaven dimpled chin ...

and he just gets the free midget in a basket.

And meanwhile the tits of all the nubile boys and girls in P.E.

wither into wind chimes...

The architecture of my childhood insomnia was a loud tomb.

I loved the Daleks selling adult diapers on the Home Purchasing Network.

I tried to read but no book ever seemed operational,

as if it were broken. Charles Manson only read books typed

on the very tough cloth of the id itself. Charles Manson never spawned

other versions of himself because his semen traveled in his thumb.

He died a lonely old man on a chair in the waiting room of a clinic.

I read about things he did with his 4 remaining fingers. Unspeakable

things. So bad were they, they even gave him food poisoning!

Both his 4 fingers and the stick of celery they were clutching

were subsequently rinsed in the clinic's holy fumes.

SPACE HOBO

its hair's laser array since my toy got rabies

stress blowing possibly pointy

lasers any trauma anthropomorphic, eight-legged

stars wheeze too big lipped

PEZ-faced, recycled any cardboard anthropomorphic

as our cars get trampled by wiggly tyrannosaur advertising

jar glowing corpse nursed many-tentacled

missing in the spectrum 2 inches above Hong Kong

a passing cardboard/newspaper augmented capsule:

so now the cosmos reeks of hobo

preserve primate until separated from condom

scissor exorcist, dialed after accidentally

jamming your image in photovoltaic pork

PANCAKE SOUND SPORES

imagination in part terrestrial,

dirty, clinging to but

released bit by bit

along with the grainy hum

of the sonic

pancake

ill of

burial in its dust's

circulatory skin

dizzying fingerprint

dials its

algorithm

lacrosse fate:

apparent

on your tombstone

I'm so relaxed right now

I think I'm -

it's so complete I

think I'm –

two large demon-possessed buttocks wrestling a small camping chair!

over phone sex,

tracking the passage of the old tranny's heavy cold

across a desert-like gap in our conversation

DIED AND WEPT WHEN I RECEIVED THE BILL

worth the regal

vocabulary of what virus,

snot-spoken crying?

approaching a tornado,

approaching a bridge,

approaching a young girl,

approaching a cow,

approaching an electric fence,

[climbing through the electric fence]

approaching a cliff,

approaching a lot of other shit,

enjoying suicide's hot slick maneuverability...

employing a friendly old oven mitt

as an alternative

to narcissism – you don't

exist

not wearing it

waving to someone

you cease to exist!

not wearing it

groping someone

you cease to exist!

now taxidermied so slowly,

dying, hurtful,

dying inside, a taxidermied abortion

coming out only

to punch a mime, a

cliff, an electric fence,

a young girl, a cow,

a Burger King sign,

a Burger King burger,

with a hand that deposits
sound and dust

on everything it punches

FREUD ON MEAT

Freud's idea of slapstick is taking the root out of an umbrella and dipping it in drain water, comical, palsied gesturing until he's tired, sweater awry, eyes

plexiglass + frenzied giggling subsequently fogging up all over them,

disgusting

DOCTOR TO PATIENT -

unravel hazardously, or whatever else you

find pertinent to the Alien Rotation

subconscious joke chokes,

respirator offering one bright-turning-fusty

atmospheric detail

How does he think the shoelace got in the incinerator?

He's wrong – it's not nearly as profound as that –

clumsiness reconstituted as the temporal dragging; blue

current jumping across patient's braces, them plumbing patient's own

tongue, dry-mouthed meat hours later poly-crumbed slaughterhouse sexy

He knows no complex object that didn't over time degenerate into simple marsh

diffusion of scurvy-nails, performing every millionth, horrible circus trick fatally

preventing indignity: for the stuck, ghost-tiny synapse, either goaded or tamed,

mission impossible II