Grass Sizzler

Dinobarf's gross doomsday-electron

sizzles in the grass. The naked special-ed dinosaur

gets yelled at by an old, yellowed dinosaur.

10-sided, 12-faced, fair as crayons, a cyborg collapses;

green elastic cleavage erasable by motel TV remote

reflected aquatic against the ceiling.

There are algae-explosions in Resident Evil.

Vacuums in a modular zombie's filth-shells can

have different BO consistencies and can be juggled.

The voodoo of soaking the itch in frozen yogurt

squeezes a breeze through shredded arteries. 

Flesh Waste

glitching in wizard trousers

through the cheerful erupted

backyard flesh waste

Barbie steals her frog's zen

back and forth between

Klingon hug therapy and the thuds

of its morbid jazz

bong nunchucks

touched fatty with

universe-fat

a reinterpreted cardboard cutout's skin ashes vibrating

in atomic deadpan;

a floating Loch Ness lid

the hugs are dangerous, analytical,

the inkblots booby trapped

with bacon

but the brain scan says I'm not, I'm not yet, anything,

and the offensive nubbin of my projection sinks back

into the machine 

Funk Does Not Last Long, Very Fog

Wintry memories, like spiders stuck shiny

in the cold porridge of the mind-software,

infest crucial linkages in the bean-snowflake interface.

Sordid farmer, now every bean is a shitty, downy carcass.

Let's hear your jailhouse-flirt and their garbage-buzz locked

in separate, stilted, unheard monologues. Beans dream.

Yeah, we've all slept with Satan when he was bankrupt or at a low point.

We've seen Mr. Burns' jumpsuit block an entire beach. The spooky unseen

skeleton. New Age underwear. Burger gun.

Orally, in this shooter game, the victims begin to knot, orally, even at a distance.

Imagine a life in which the cryptids bowling team is not invited

to the arctic afterdeath party. Streaks of snake oil trailing across your Maxim.

“Oh lobotomized body builder,” a caption in 38 different typefaces reads,

“stop hovering 26 feet in the air above your Ferrari, glumly.”

Lifehack: stay in the squatting position for 81 hours to

prevent the sun from baking your dump. 

Bum-Shaped Smoke Rings

invincible birthday hologram

pivoting lukewarm

cohesive, armpit fart-relieving surface-level

steering fake, jointed pet round

trailerpark GIF

(pig beam)

smoking the bad taste out of trees

(longer pig beam)

(jointed, smoke rings)

(fart)

(longer fart)

(jointed, smoke rings)

map of the infinity-booger; melted salt

recreational, pneumatic mini ax Zod-sproing;

that's some gob-crusted

da Vinci Code shit

right there, invincibility in its pseudoscience's

Gatorade void, three-legged

encapsulation

by a poorly

cropped T-Rex

The Fucked-Up Butler

The arcade's furniture's on fire so everybody at

the cyber town meeting jostles for position on

the water slide cum suicide urinal. A mire of

boneheads surveyed by the clam in one eyeroll as

the Edwardian sex toy trudges water to the accompaniment of

a church bell stretching. The contraceptives he

hoarded on the space station were interchangeable

with kittens. At the touch of a button, they merged

with everybody's lymphatic tissue, ironically. Everybody calmed down.

With its crippling charm, vomit scours my muumuu,

like a great fog thrown into my innards, sleeping in

olfactory buckets-full of Walmart. Forbidding human

contact to help make karaoke holy. To the accompaniment of a time machine

idly oozing its slideshows. The dance fulfils its function as an effective cuntblock.

Luckily, my anthropomorphism is adjustable. One only tinges lettuce with abject golf.

Finding the remains of a religion at the bottom of the toaster fucks up the butler. Then it

fucks up the toaster. Toilet paper fucks elevators up. 

Logbook Of A Sociopath

[As the Stone Age's edges fall away,

a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.

Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.

Its interior is lacking.

It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]

WALL-E's Logbook:

Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.

It felt so good, working loose my clone.

WALL-E's Logbook: Took several weeks

to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding

claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw's exact inherent

cone-space like an actual ice-cream.

The “ice-cream” itched.

WALL-E's Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.

Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark's strange marks, here and there.

WALL-E's Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;

the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.

I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,

threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.

Often there's very heavy rain.

WALL-E's Logbook:

A little coked up. Bruises better now.

Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.

Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin' it.

Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!

WALL-E's Logbook:

Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.

But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.

WALL-E's Logbook:

The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.

I laser it off; all access to the sky

is restricted, now.

Jesus Pop

A funeral after a fashion. Holograms at the back of the throat, bleeding. Unrealistic cooking. Poking from a sleeve. Steeped in motherlessness. A gaggle of parasites and I. The pox – the fist of a fancy word. Evil by the most autistic orc; a bridge by the multifaceted squirt. His mug's tubes, swaying. Obnoxious. A nebula. Carving whose goiter craps kinks. A twitching mirror reflection. Texturally plumbing the strap-on nerve. Its toe. Oatmeal reality TV coined the eternal jingle, promiscuously, from under a USB cleft lip. With one's fanny pack's dynamo, moon worship-stroke the id. Pop Jesus to spread his trash talk. Here's one amputee not made for straight nails.