Hey I Want My Girl Back

Marty lent faith (and ten dollars) to a complete stranger, some
Australian guy, and thought he’d
get that girl of his (he’d also lent his girl) back, and oh
she did like paisley – could even wander cautiously into
that first-person-fornicator view
people with red curls in their blood do cautiouslessly.
Roller coasters may cause cat-level head pressure at
the bottom of the loop, people can pick only
from cat-level bookshelves; like, they skulk
around there where interesting shit can be seen: i.e. at
bed-level…
That’s how Marty started borrowing anyhow: he’d realized it
exemplified genius. And when you’re cockblocked by this
feminizing empathy, by this paralyzing nasal spray – that’s
almost as lame as demanding the ten dollars (and the girl) back,
a week before due date.

Can gushing sex parts answer the biggest questions about frugality?
Marty needs to start stealing corduroy like this
from pretty legs and stay away from Australian guys
taking advantage of nerdy locals.
His kindness balances on a ball, serves drinks, but meanwhile
the bordello is in poor shape: let’s
spruce it up, people! Overachieving Australian guys
buying ‘buy your own riot’ holiday packages
don’t appreciate the riots they buy, Marty. Like,
they don’t even totally use them.

Nested Limp

Five minutes later, I could say with kind of 
mystified airs that the nuclear accident had hit the spot.
It invented a new type of leather-winged orphanism.

I didn’t feel fresh in the sense of being revivified
or my color centers tickled by today’s biotech scratchiti.
I felt more like a taser-induced birth defect:

my mother saw the flying lizard predator thing
and withdrew into her warm nest but
left a leg sticking out which got nipped,

so really I was born this way. The gangrene
had spread into the milk; entire mental reaches
of unborn bubbleheads were tweaked into the
sad relaxed world-view of a stay-at-home thirsty cow,

always thirsty, always thirsty.
Always, these days, saying to ourselves: it’s gonna be a long day.  
Morphine aficionados aren’t that bad, you know? They’re empowered

by the atrocious family of party-throwers. 
So what? I’ve become a member, we’re a family now,
and to be paid handsomely to

in the mornings do my teeth with the deadly curse of
dentals thrown from a rooftop ensures I will never
bite the leg of someone harboring beautiful potential.

Rentals starting at $35 per morning –
these braces are virtually constructed from nest
twigs, for woodsy camouflage,

and while Super Mario Bros. drive tranquility down a suicidal path,
cripples like me invent their own board games –
to be played with new families in relative, unhobbled peace.

Homecoming

Her memory ruined the scintillating trailerpark summer,
its lens on the Wimpy burger and
its nose filled with the gray doghouse odor.
The salad like melted tennis shoes.
She could’ve had fun, but this negative faculty
contributed to the cancellation of almost 100, 000
of the funniest parolees to be featured
on the giant trailer-sized television, which inexplicably retired
with an oldmannish wheeze and a big
coke face spitting plasma.
This wouldn’t sound like a big deal if you’ve
never seen a funny man on parole:
now picture a hundred thousand. How the
heck could Misty have prioritized a mere bad
memory of a hamburger over this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity? Misty lives in a trailer but her nose
is good. Her sensibility is so refined it’s virtually
Spock-eared. Fine, but wouldn’t this totally have
trumped that historical bad experience?
It was just a burger, for Christ’s sake;
we substitute bad things with good things
and the spin-offs are gluteal clefts nudged onto the riverbanks –
sunny around the shaded crack,
sane body temperature in a tear dress. 
Find your kickstarter, Misty.
Don’t recall that movie. Its vibes are bad
although its moral is good: a dark cavity develops
differently in a furry head.
Jake – the fucker who built a glass staircase to
your trailer bedroom which you’re too afraid to climb –
is coming home and would’ve been among the 100k
hilarious cons; now he’d probably just slump in
through the tin door and you’d get your usual
loveless head-pat, a hello
that sounds a lot like vomiting voicemail.

Bat Performer

Bad news for the anthrax on the striped sockbottom
of the amputee bat. The myth about the dust it
kicks up in its one-legged dance is truly a distortion –
the dance is cute and it’s heartrending seeing an
animal go at it with such heart and vigor. But the dust
is dust: i.e. really deadly dust. How many an audience member has
had some kicked in their face and frothingly croaked?  
There are a gazillion deadly atoms in a pixel of
his dance routine but only one billion in a grain
of sand – how much egregious vertigo is in a
grain of anthrax? And when it comes to fighting crime
how is a concerned citizen who is too fat to fly
supposed to fight the lovable bat’s incidental dust-
spray when he does his one-legged can-can up there
in his striped sock? Can you really kill such a thing?
The performer is made of math and in a jacket
stained with blood imbues show business; it is not
necessarily religion it cleaves with a butcher knife
and the design of its leathery wing-jacket – despite evidence of
unorthodox physics and weird aeronautical integers –
doesn’t zip-reveal the interior of a troll.

The bat cracks me up, on my couch over here: as a
comic book solicitor, and a saver of slack, lace-fly sweaters –
occasionally with black fingernails talking up some ladies –
watching his routine and getting dust kicked in my face
is like chemo given to my bologna sandwich. One has to be
a little cruel sometimes, one has to have an opinion, one has
to say something – and not just sit back and grow fat and grow
hairy eyes – so here it goes: I think the bat’s little top hat
is a little gratuitous.

Do Allegories Talk Like Innards?

Airport screeners can see muscles caused by laughing,
recycled Möbius strips, pancreatic oysters splashed 
across the insect visor – and they are therefore 
pseudo-scientific, they have more fun doing Chernobyl silkscreens
or spotting odd body carve-outs, death rays giggling
at old kidney transplants, lame facial piercings.
The photon mass settles on the mascot’s wrist,
blue fingers fondling the object found – a strange bracelet –
its molestation leaving steamroller or moon rover tracks filled
with corn: then, finally, you melt and you know
what it’s like when the Japanese marshmallow cult
has dealt with you.    

But that’s nothing compared to the ‘transformative’ feeling
you get subsequent to nibbling warts on a sea serpent –
the feeling of feeling like your insides, a body bathed
in neon sabermetrics, a desert of eggwhite spinning
on a needle, coming apart at the edges and
hurling slivers of Amish newsprint and mildew.
When choreography is broken down into quanta,
its aim to depict lawnsprinkler madness,
that’s when you get true bile on a stick. You can’t say exactly
how you feel now that you’ve turned into
a freak who goes on roadtrips on post-apocalyptic Segways (robbed
from the security guard in your escape prior to the time
everyone sported scales or rusty radiator grills)
hallucinating toy-commercials, socializing (in your rags)
with campfire-side allegories. Or even if such things
as allegories still exist.

The Office

Keeping the bagpipe calculus so
pure and doing it masterly
on dial systems,

a communist labyrinth of
security-monitoring tracking
the Mars bar all the way to the Drunk Englishwoman’s

heart and pussy. 
Where above the switchboards
do you kite-fly your ash cloud?

The little ghost’s
outerwear is stretchy for 
Chun-Li lightning kicks and atheism;

the business phones’ gray corpse’s
smell that you also find
inhabiting the communal microwave

or on the anxiety-sweated
rotaries. Every chatter melted on touch-tones
into schmaltzy bureaucracy 

and company red tape sew together
all the cabbage patch kids’
personalities.

Hairy Eugene

Had Homo Erectus not had sex with Neanderthals – and
had rape not played a possible role – we’d
a) not have killed them, b) the bathtub claw
of each surviving gene

wouldn’t have dragged many of us down
into embarrassing behavior, and c)
we’d have all dressed like Boba Fett now.

People: if we don’t realize it’s hot
to use our brain, and that complex life is not
a yellow stingy thing but can figuratively be understood
without such creative auxiliaries as
cheese graters; if we don’t staunch sentimentalism over
the hybrid baby's cute twitch of mustache,
I swear to God, another war’d break out.