VEGETABLE BURP

the monitor is still full of

unwanted data – Where's Waldo

in its glaucus depths?

I can only smell him,

his passive aggressiveness

still perpetuating the

smell of grass,

or is the monitor just full

of grass?

that's him talking to

the drug dealer, which

other than sitting

on park benches behind

enormous newspapers I

know he finds soothing...

I see the lone, striped,

bespectacled, behatted,

bearded, tentacled speck

neutral data can be

that inflammatory, knots in bones

and Ebola doodles goaded

out of flesh; nevertheless,

it all dissolves quickly upon a

bad landing

slayed like a slug,

UFO molestation

of a slug, rendered into

a great noirish, hand-shaped

cactus

the sort of veggie which when

landing from a great height

burps, and emits intricacies -

more than just a

squelch

the glassy run-off of

a TV ad, like

a sinister streak

in the mirror, computing

something somewhere behind

there: coordinates

that's where the planet is:

this planet, though [...] had been

almost too far to reach

and now I can't find

weed anywhere...

sleep eventually deposits its sadness

into the apparatus, the pillow

of sad sounds, vigorous FM hatched

by lower cement; falling

voices

voices then suddenly promoted

by the room's hidden fan's

consistent swipe

at every bit of air

I'm still watching porn;

but have learned in the meantime that

the dino-dachshund has been fired

and now the mouse's

hairy balls are instead being

pimped out

the deer recycled

into my personal robot

welding the aneurysm

with the suck and putt

of a steady stream of bugs,

the Milky Way a modular monstrosity

now sagging a little,

in parts

Jesus sitting somewhere

up there on electric furniture

commonly used only

by the Borg

my sink flush with oblivion,

combined with a dangling spine;

Jesus blocking

the magic like a

villain translating impurity

into rapture

CLAMS!

for a moment there, slime gained sentience

bobbing up and down, stalking

eager faces on long necks

I've seen its application in soap operas

smiles initiating their dental outer layers

these are mere consumer products, hungering

e.g. in a hardware store: things the

rake finds appetizing

cloaking a jagged projection

with one's skin – can you see with it or merely smell?

is it a nose attached

to the back of the eyeball?

in all soap operas a character falls into a coma

contorted into a shape

with hips higher than knees

a rusty thimble coming loose

in the subject's coma, its head

up a fat locust, its head wrapped in a swarm –

part of the brain seems to be a murky blowtorch,

growling, lithium on some long wire

or other implement

the sides of the chemical do grip;

in the middle a spray always resides

a space-autopsy of our zeitgeist

slush on a book's floor

words engulfed in fertilizer

turning a page is like

gauze falling flat out of the sky

in soap operas, one learns about ways

to make your spores dazzle her;

drunk on linoleum sundaes

with chicken movements shaking one's restraints

GREEN TOAST

the smell causes a surgical mask to pile up tiny

the carcass, exploding,

gives things – an accurate use of release

onion ozone

and

garbage soda

nipple microbes (typical ward merchandise)

and

a symphony of

pouches

and a new meaning to the green effigy

hanging in an atheist's refrigerator; the big door before which

we all stand is so cruel, on the one hand, its ambiance reminiscent

of a vanity mirror, on the other,

insect-fucks blipping throughout the whole of

its garden, the body – decaying – an aphrodisiac sticking

toothpicks into insect abdomens

the chatter sounding like SMS rocks boxing 

their little megaphones shaping a closed environment;

an itch blows through the corpse

that's the start of the hobo's perfection

his hologram finds harmony in hanging off a city's building's branch

knows it's an accident waiting to happen

a river spilling its remains

into a shopping cart, uniformly,

adherence to

the safest treatment of a soul

self-automating

operator

in collection mode

reaches a kind of homogeneous toast, a possible beach,

a forecourt

A CHICKEN IN MY FILING CABINET

What I think, usually, when looking at my filing cabinet,

is feed the machine

the near death state of its stored life

there must be a trick to its continuing glaze

what's it – milder rose hair?

there are slits in stars

the juice around my Betamax's crusting loops

of their lifespans, I think vibrating

with mitochondrial circulation

draped plankton scented

a glitch in the toy deep down

your mantis took years picking its way out of Walmart

but my chicken had literally time traveled out of there...

its butt's googly central eye

the rest of its body plus the antenna misinterpreted as

looking well-proportioned only on comic furniture

remember: the traumatic negative placebo

hunter raisins crawling up paper

this is the war's new face passing beyond the beyond

housing a sprocket's personality trait

breaking, and with a gesture holding shut the speed of light

Tron's biofuel hacked out of the old lady's backyard

one dollop of it sparged

over the heart

a spring can slow you down

it nests so frequently

HAVE YOURSELF A WHALE OF AN AFTERNOON

its frozen wax had over a million years evolved into a scowl

other people did notice me chewing on the iceberg

it had almost drowned once, but then was quickly patched up

its cells only fit by giving them a heavy slam

aluminum embryo inside, whose dreams are boring

its dreams' vague, seamless glut

doddering in a phlegmy graveyard

in the night sky's frame things brightened up

auxiliary doom: one rare videotape of a comet's caroming

a comet can be quite eccentric - and deadly - if it doesn't get its 
trajectories exactly right

i.e. a stegosaurus following the yellow brick road;

its nose's smell poised above the unobtainable air-freshener

the stegosaurus's hard-to-reach neon collarbone gone stale w/

much of its color/odor squandered

you need an afternoon of like-minded whales

the nation needs Jerry Springer digging flea poop

out of one of those phallic pots:

the triangular downpour would wipe out his small audience

I have never sat in certain armchairs before

I have never been part of a live/undead studio audience

my spinning, leaking ego's logic needs looking at

its bubble is stuffed

a freak gerbil wheel of bladder lapse

THE HYENA WASHED OUT OF THE HOUSE

The hyena's eyes' glare

composting in their bottle caps.

Hyena waffles.

The chain in its hair appears diffuse.

The animal is a soft, domesticated animal.

It has a waterbed's soul's million

honeycomb puddles dog collared.

It's possible to drain the waterbed

by combing it with a comb. Such that

its schematics begin to

slowly dangle.

The hyena towed away

by this transfiguration.

Spilled out of the house

when the waterbed pops...

In a context preceded

by a context in which an arm

lay on the floor. The lady, who had

squeezed her unconscious

information's supports, its mundane

props. A staple of therapy

hardware. 

 

Xanax-perforated or on

the new version of

domestic surge: e.g. lasers?

The stairwell had collapsed.

Other things also need

to be pumped up again.

Made pretty.

If you're doing sorcery

with a box cutter,

give yourself more

photogenic gills.

Unlimited R.I.P. to those

dead around you. Unlimited

air, replicating death's lungs'

lips.

Breathing not like

spooning each

breath with

splinters.

With cramps

lending traction

to our prehensile ghetto-parts.

The butcher's torso

hinging on his dirty apron.

One rarely uses

the internal intergalactic

unconscious, other than by

circumventing it for fun –

magnets dropped into

tiny imperfections.

Cobbled together

from clockwork. The

sofa blossoming again.

Like salad transmitted into

sweatpants.

The gutters fixed.

The animal impounded.

The paradox of organs –

the rules of their union

hold up under the fiercest

scrutiny. Your, my, everyone's

tonsils and shit, bound by rules.

METASTASIS

hips susceptible

to clustering

their gross harvest,

merely by pulling

up a chair

mistook oddment

for body part

the rubber

eraser

splits hair

in nasal three-way 
with Scooby-Doo

and the wearing of 

an ethereal helmet

gene sparkler

souvenir

when Gatorade's white

trash yin yang

heartburn

dispensers

and Eastern bloc

kiosk's douchenozzle overlapped

evacuation

via a cough

[having gone]

unnoticed

[too], the

shrink-raying of

a pigeon

Snow White's

peeling decals

amid

horrible pedicure

metastasis

my khakis'

nerve gas

sprinklers

i.e. occult livestock circus taint

washed in

production of

its own yellow chemical

calculation

of a legend:

anonymous

stool

my Segway

overreacts

to the roach it

feels like being

crushed under

something shaky