Diarrhea Derp

For MySpace barnacled up,

The psychic hole lidded by an earwax peace sign,

A boil stitched LSD shaded.

An organ donor's newly empty galaxy downloads

Christmas plasma, secretes monster GIFs

overnight, spitefully sexy.

Nurturing a popcorn skeleton.

passions chemically tie my sneakers

canaries dislocated by

a smuggler's asshole

The dark derp of preserved weasel.

Of dinner crashing flexing into knives.

Valentine's Poem IV

Strangling tele-puke with a Telecaster

is exactly like draining a glove. I mean, why shoot, thanks.

Popped bloodstreams, repeating indigoid.

Numerous quit, helped fast far over

dangerous head smells outside around

next along. Too close together, welcoming &

chiming on my space chair.

Whale song that tells me

what the television is doing

breaks, like a witch blanking the beefiest frog.

Indeed, willing, optional fan art, on the floor,

mashed fountains, difficult in the dark.

Accessed viscera quirk crocodilian quack,

bludgeoned to trash tripedal-tailed.

Manga Smithers enters green void:

driving like an idiot. Distortion pedal to

the metal. The lattermost email tool alternates

between goatish and fancy nonsense

attached to the ejector seat

attached to orchids that choke e.g. a condom.

The NSA's Dong

Awkward tears sneezed through a small slug grommet, hell yeah.

A stretchable pacemaker erupting into gross robotics, soft horror.

I'm where surplus heads dock the egg of amputee-pliable heroin.

Drugs are bad for you. So here, huddled cryptids scrape a deceased loved one's

feces into bundled smileys, fattening the NSA's dong on sonic ribbons, 

insinuations, faces, Sonic the Hedgehog, a gobbled-up dinosaur infographic's 

subplot: i.e. “Gandhi is global-warming lethal Coke into a brake fluid screensaver

a-la happy winking selfie!” Or: “My bike's dimming, yuh, yelling, thirsty.”

“Coal's origami nipple disturbed by our fucked up cheap little magnet

and the vagrant asymmetrical shart of its noise-figure.” “Alright sorry, bye.”

Conjecture Station #sundaypoem

Pee666,

duct tape that captures the werewolf implant

ignoring the kitten-impactor

sleeping through hours of slime

Evil sticks gum to the

conjecture-station

kindly organically goblins,

spooning shedding skin, obtuse stewing,

the nickelodeon unplugs

bugs that dazzle and hack the effect on the eye

of a cardboard cutout of

Death's scrotum ahaha lol

Garden Chair Anus

clothes clog shit up in the dishwasher.

a liquidized cockroach has sprouted

too big bionic fuzz, its consciousness 

smeared blue by taco bell's “fold-out” wrist, 
a nod to the mind-boggling mechanics of 
a decepticon whacking off, spitting white trash resin

while sleepwalking in a hollow grinning

creep; bleeding sewage, whirring naked

in a shopping trolley. urinating on junk yards

on earth; anus resting on a garden chair

on mars. the cadaver worsens the movie theater.

the suicide-impressionist's best gesture

sinks in a flutter of postmortem milk

smoothly circuited by clothes.

Shoot Self.

Stars slip slippers on, magically. Ambush a little spacecraft. I smell a lot of flames on each star. A fly sizzles in a dystopian color. Nuclear poop cracks cracks in suns, because light is backward-facing. LaForge slips a skinny cat over his head, sees. The cat is made of tin, and while raping the blind man's eyes feeds from an old Hustler fashioned into a bowl, or just a flat screen, ripples of colorful mold. Which can be poked, with affection. The tin cat does (poke it). Unlike normal hugs, Facebook pokes can't transform into gymnastic danglings. Internet smells of enlightenment. Cooking smells of BO. The way a torture device spoils fish, spam arouses my affection. The small skin cancer I am fighting is oblong, flat, phallic, huge, sand; the Street Fighter décor curls infinitely. My pants feel one-sided. They are. There are matching skeletal dunes in Dune. Harsh sand, sun, sunglasses. Dick-faced worms. Hovering, time-traveling pussies. The sandpeople don't really believe in “ambush,” a little, very blue-eyed boy once read (on the back of a bottle of “Ambush” spice). Their motto is “shoot self.” 

Iguana Dental Crowns

A swell of Pokemon appendages mayonnaising weird temperatures on everything equates with suffering. Fungusman enters a bar, suffers. Brain edge shaken squid nude, glitching spectral. The saturated feel of a Kalashnikov pointing at mushroom patrons, its usually silent parts hooting silent. Sporous ice-cream lurks, wet-dreaming sinus-bubbles, astringent, gets dropped. Gets picked up again, a neon spider euthanized in a panic, wet floor-dropped arachnoid caricature deepening. Garbage humps things. Complicated and sometimes nice things. A donkey-fucking frankfurter laces hives, colonizing like winged sperm crapping headless. Goatse cocktail corpse-o-rama: foliage purges bees. Strap-on holes, hilarious for their violent mastication, distill Ms Jetson's strap-on iguana lizard's gold fillings into cumwinged pocket change. Voltron flipped Fred Flitstone's taint around a knife, hung itself, safer, on a redneck's bullet hole stickers.