THUMB SMILEY

*

derobes milk. kinky, melting plateau.

cardboard black woman, skeletons of a peep show.

our maid working in a reactor. woozy from

mechanical Moses, his side boob teeth

alone: herpes crybaby, circus vibrant

deploying morph. fodder for wolf woven cognitive.

*

intrepid bounty hunter's matches, scissor-marching.

flamethrower jetlag shrug.

butchers cheap mold / lapdances my snot statue.

a traffic cone's hangover from abortions:

solar panel patting overload.

deficiencies in crack cocaine lie in the crux of hot

facial nourishment. chloroform finger puppet: gravedigger.

THE CASE OF THE BROKEN PARKING METER

Cartoon denizens have been buried alive in this mini-golf slum. One of them pierced their thigh on a splinter – actually it was a diseased earthworm. The saddest sight was a type of vegetable that grew only in sandstorms. How it waxed nostalgic about its weird growing pains! The last one (i.e. the last growing pain) happened little less than two hours before.

Since I'd incurred dementia from my visit to Ikea, I had the courage to stand up – still ankle-deep – and sketch in the little points booklet the metrics of a dry handjob. A bald head across which traipsed a special algorithm – the mind thinks the vibrations are phantom brush strokes, but to be spray-tanned by shrapnel is very real.

One's heartbeat soaked in oatmeal tumors.

The picture I drew turned out to be an infographic about gerbils, and how if you forced them to wear sweatpants, the latter would constantly leak tea. Apparently useless in all other respects, gerbils – like other vermin – can play the flute if you break one of their legs. They play the flute with that broken leg.

The shovel that fell to Mars realized it would be in for a big surprise, if one day it gathered the strength and the will to randomly start digging somewhere. It would turn evil, and it would take its chosen dark path too literally; it would miss what surgeons call the 'glow feature' of every clean, orthodox appendectomy – and in a bout of hotheadedness, it would encounter millions of black, shattering bubbles. None of them causing even the slightest spark when blinking out. Surprising the ever-living crap out of the shovel.

Fake orgasms by keeping deep in your vagina and/or penis bags of pus retrieved from an infected eye and/or ear wound. The bags when rupturing would scream in ecstasy, would, like an exposed brain, drool an equal amount of blank, brilliant austerity.

Truth.

My bird's personality disorder, in its fingernail birdhouse - measuring time in terms of the amount of lopped off fingers of prior owners – and according to the little parking meter in there with it, from which it believes it needs to spend fifty more years picking chewing gum, before the meter's dial would finally budge.

MY GARDEN TOOLS AREN'T WHERE I LEFT THEM

'I recently had a very pleasant experience,' my aunt wrote on her blog. 'On an impulse I joined a one-man masquerade. I lay down in the street and pretended to be a speed bump. I will spare you the gory details, save to say my garden tools aren't where I left them. A common misconception about toasters: the glow of their inner mechanism calls attention to the lesions on very yeasty bread, and the undertones resulting of this interaction bare close semblances to the calls coming from the plumbing, which are as spooky as the cry of the creature desperately seeking a cave to follow you into. While getting beaten the shit out of in pool halls does not perpetuate the mean, destructive myth about depleted serotonin levels in the hideously deformed. Psychopathy uncoiling into the inhuman, asbestos embodiment of one painfully intimate O.J. Simpson. Only an experienced chunk of taffy, when aiming a hairdryer at it, mutates into a flesh-colored origami crane. I THOUGHT turning into a speed bump would be a terrifying prospect for my dysmorphophobia; I'd taken a placebo, ya know? - which I knew well and which I trusted – and already, in my head, it was ramifying into images of a translucent, if tire-tainted, carapace lying in the road, crammed up against the sidewalk. I looked like a glass condom. In one bed-time story, a scary omen got really heavily sedated – the boy hero had potted it with a dart gun or something – then collapsed on the floor and was revealed to be a bed sheet. Pfff. And in another, artificial resuscitation was administered to a robot that had swooned at a picnic. 'What are you worried about?' they demanded when he came to. 'The calculation machine you used to revive me – it is extremely valetudinarian.' 'Yeah? And?' They thought him an ungrateful prick. 'Well, I now have extreme anxiety over this and that, and one thing and another.' 'Such as?' 'Well...'

CHICKEN COOP SUPERNOVA

unwinding an ulcer

into dots, and watching

them float languorously on the surface

Pizza Hut is no

longer a 200km-wide

unused overgrown median

strip along the inner thigh

a monster's lobe

diesel-marinated:

these are

basically scrabble letters deep-throated,

chewed, and collated by a puppy

into the words *Blade Runner*

the part of your

brain responsible for keeping

deer antlers

in Tupperware

red shift

sunglasses, like

choking on a phantom limb,

when the irises return

to a point in time immediately

before the Big Bang

paraplegic movement

with respect to

tiny toe

death throes

coral gradient

combing of 3D pinpricks,

the view

is amazing

the

paint can's

numerical value

either a decryption of a chicken coop's

building specifications into

plans for a makeshift

supernova clobbered together

from radially pointing

wooden planks

or

a recipe for opium

but your hangnail no

longer has an appetite

for manslaughter;

but rather for suicide 

 

a new personal challenge

of turning the

grave site's delicious screw

therapy's shoe lining

twisted over the deathtrap

to cover it with

a parking lot

NEW PHYSICS

A shrimp in early childhood.

When I learned forgiveness is an SUV.

That the necropolis can kill a man.

The mundane was my inhabitable hemorrhage.

Truffles and the insensitivity of others toward

their communication disorder –

a warning against the perils

of hobnobbing with vowels

that are perfectly spherical apart from

the marks of self abuse

that twisted them sigmoid.

Or into an obscenity. Sometimes,

when you gave them a little shake.

Plankton in its day made quite a splash.

Social tarantula: won in a raffle.

We were friends long before

the shapers of our identity

fell out of a bunch of dairy products.

Electrons as extruders of LSD to

make Rube Goldberg's yarn.

Ultimately, you'll see what you're

going to look like nowhere else

but in new physics. The

staff will all be very pleasant.

I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT I HATE MY NEIGHBOR'S HAT

Birds, angels – what a bizarre mass of … of stuff circling above

the Hobbit's yard. It's almost impossible to find the narrowed part of

the crust. Because this is an impossible-to-bite-through pie...

Hobbit I love you, you, you. Party harmlessly, babe.

For these are the new apps you've downloaded to your iPhone:

laughing gas conniptions; rumors that reached the camel toe via a ping;

wholly or partly raked measles; chewed epithelium; and an

appetite-masking capsule.

My neighbor is junk.

The submarine in his garage is rubbish.

His idiot son and his Lego set is crap.

His John Deer hat is stupid.

He believes the Guinness Book of Records is still relevant.

In today's mail, he discovers and flaunts (waving the flyer over

the fence) this offensive spiel about hope as something worth

paying for.

'$25, 000!!!'

The flyer in the post is chock full of stories of hope.

Hope is the notion that, of all the UFOs built out of

a paperweight, a big nose, and a deformed internal organ, only

one could defy both gravity and inertia.

He leans on the fence and tells me this disturbing story about how

the Muppets sell all their towels online – no blood, just the towels.

The two separated. Like the soda machine and its

emissions. The one here, the other there. But next to

each other. Like the paparazzi and their assassination attempts

on bikes. Like relaxing and heroin. Like pork and its leak.

Like masturbation and a cotton candy pentagram.

'Hope, you see – the hope I'm willing to buy for 25,000 bucks? -

it's all about division.' The Hobbit literally shocks me with this

news. 'Does the flyer say that? Really?' He sighs, then shouts -

'I can't take it anymore, this feeling of a carrot with a gnarly birth defect!'

A goat stomps around in the leaves littering his yard;

it pisses in its own beard. Mending the division.

'I'm gonna disown my idiot son and eBay his moronic Lego set,'

the Hobbit says resolutely – and there's something strange about

him when he raises a fried chicken drumstick to his mouth and

bites into it. 'When I divorced my wife, ten years ago, it felt like a

caterpillar drawing a head trauma through its little caterpillar jersey.'

'It felt like shit. Disowning my son and selling his Lego will feel like shit.

Never taking my submarine out for a spin felt, and continues

to feel, like shit.' 

 

The Hobbit walks away leaving a string of unspoken expletives like a

telegraph message of splayed amphibian water prints on the leaves in

his yard. I return indoors thinking the rest of the day about the

forays and exploits of transcendental KFC.

HEY I REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO GO TO THAT MEETING

cat jizz, awkward moment in immortality

flirtatious nails put the neat little flame, on a plank

so goes the nasal imagery of Kermit

mushroom musical, dirty worms issue notes that are sweaty

I (rainbow crud) sprang from a sitcom. I (moon mold wank)

dove into unfiltered devolution

a not disembodied Ice Cream. rather the rapture is a triangle of fog

Mao Zedong, rubbed balloons into hysteria until learning:

his mother is a dove

'they are crooks,' intoned the pink butterfly leaking all over the place

experiments on double chins, the apple you're not allowed to touch;

because it's the gross Sun because (it's a truck's plume

choking on its own dump)

Frangipani weird sleep, twinkle crunch

the possessed car dream-chased by a dog talks like

a demon drowning in a swimming pool

kissy lips serious expression, kitty cat why so serious?

soccer looks like fat asses (from space)

(on Craigslist, bluntly) expressionless posing suicidal clams

and the committee's invitation begins its toxic spread

it's a blessing, whose stem slowly grows out of a trashcan

by meeting's end humping us with its, knoll puke godcloak