KATE BUSH'S CLONE IS A BLANKET

Sauron reclined on a gurney,

which to the young doctors pushing it

down the corridor sounds like Dial-Up

but to the dead wizard – evangelical.

My armpit is fun.

Stare through its windowpane.

Closing it, there is some cloudy crotch fusion.

The fly's face right by it –

craning its neck to look -

the slum heaving, then hissing with the intensity

of a packet of rice sinking to the heart of a quasar -

the fly's mustache vibrating in the threnody:

because my armpit is an educational singer that

provides a rush most addictive – but to the fly is

soul-deadening.

350mg of spectral maid, pulling me from

the shower, saving me from myself –

i.e. a filament weaponized, anorexia sparkling with

photoshop cellophane.

Kate Bush's clone does not care.

It is a male, Walmart-augmented blanket

infested with Axe body spray –

dressed as a witch with a ring of cocaine

resting squarely on its lips, gurgling acidic

dreams like mouthwash-dripping cocks into the livecam.

Sniffing its palm. Drawing powder from urine.

It does not care.

SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF

Because the AC is that grisly.

Who knew my chainsaw

could smell its own rubber?

I saw Halley's Comet through night vision goggles.

My jaw dropped: Or did something similarly stupid. Like parkour.

Hold the scone this way. No, not that way.

Right. In the sunlight. Yeah. Right. Now: Feel it

flood over you. Wait. Squint. Just a little more. Now:

Feel it flood over you. That's how I normally

generate suspension of disbelief

when conventional means aren't

at my disposal. 

 

This smile, I got through surgery. It is,

a utility for eating.

This kidney, comes from a stencil. The parameters of which are steak-like.

This rocket, stinks of [and exudes, at toilet level]

lawnmower sweat.

This gnat, date rapes with cute asthma.

This psycho, uses BBQ tongs to tease the bangs

of autumn. Now autumn's bangs look like porn's

hairy nose flanges.

And he curbs the altitude of the vegetable by deleting certain formations

in golf. Sasquatch

fixing the corrugated

tin door of

his roadshow,

the maudlinest

thing I've ever seen.

I wish every

bad experience of

the previous

inhabitants [of

my house] to

be engraved

in pulp.

GATORADE BY TUESDAY

The Ghostbusters

know that the turkey [animal, anatomically correct suitcase, dissected frog] is the Canadian periodic symbol

for fart jokes

raising their sack of extinct ink, its blast interchangeable

with Van Halen

smelly fragile flavored Vampire         stress as subject of 
                                                      performance art –

guaranteed weird costume –

butterfly diabetes space screwed

on horrifying latex TV

therapeutic gurgles in my therapeutic dream: the dental

clockwork

in it a snail trying to keep warm with unruliness         naked is autonomy

space screwed killing me in my pants

Gatorade by Tuesday an adorable plankton 
mirage of ears

IN WHICH I DON'T MEAN SOMETHING WELL ENOUGH [A CAKE]

armadillo sheathed

homage to lampshade

hover bedside

peach, your oozing digital

X-ray

weather fluctuations'

hypnotic pawing

restore my former pony,

Betamax

video

machine

volleyball is safe

is a safe hobby

is safe chemical castration –

but pretty clumsy –

shear [ ] popsicle [to] sociopath

the poltergeist's diaper [is]

a skull

its lizard's hunger

for a urine test, [expressing]

your

disapproval via a pantomiming feather duster

where everything that cannot be seen

is nudged into the open, the

laundromat with eyes open, [predilections]

on stalks of electrode hips

electrode-

fit [baby]

like parachute-failure applied externally,

pumpkins welcome the

resurgence of transparent tissue

pimped [out] goblin

although [not] good meat

how tight or nipply, inflatable doll's t-shirt

isotope of the gnawed cell

primordial soup pulverized is

death unpleasantly pretty clear

pretty nice antennae

[baby]

if you're willing to have your jar polished

then you're willing to have your ball-point pen's exoskeleton

the cure,

formaldehyde-grown CAKE to mean

risen well [CAKE] but

not well-meant

WHEN GOD CREATED ELVIS

They turned on each other, LSD and the fork used to scoop it up. The foot and the elusive garden soil Agent Cooper was busy raking in changing patterns of owl fart when you walked in on him. Awfully embarrassing, like catching your pancreas smoking oatmeal with delinquent explosions behind the mall's sixth, drooping eyelid. A fucking school bully. An invertebrate when taking a bath; an Ewok when suddenly angered.

Smelled by the keenest foot sole in search of a mate. In plain fracking sight, Satan's areolae exhibited hurt – though you could barely identify them by their sonic booms. Somewhere, a plague is getting some much-deserved reprieve. Inertia sensitive to the wheels whipping behind the snail's mudguard earlobes when Captain America with a heroic flourish drops his hearing aid onto the floorboard of the snail he'd tamed with a rapid succession of mute sneezes with acupunctural finesse along the snail's body, and a jab of the thumb into the direction he'd wanted the creature to, with warm-blooded locomotion, very slowly take him.

Your tongue, dreaming of being the primary conduit of the pretty lilt in your voice. Tonality, when I hit you hard in the face, activated proportionally to higher and higher concentrations of knuckle beard. For the money I paid to watch it squirm, lightning could have a few less potatoes clumped at the ends of its epilepsy. Made before it committed genocide, made before it retired to an armchair with a slingshot. The Bosnian parrot's warped penis's accuracy with a stone. It's not ordinary harassment. It's God's misidentification of His four and a half creations. Elvis in the first eleven seconds of his existence.

WIMBLEDON KARATE

The rabbi slowly fitted my head clamp. Until then, I had been

a truly disoriented person. I was kindly given sanctuary by

a vestige from my youth – a warm wet armpit fart; I had

hidden from wolves by quickly growing a forest on that 'old me's'

tongue. I'd seen the rabbi tinkering with shapeshifters, casting

logs in the flightpaths of their molecular configurations,

laughing at the karate guy on Wimbledon's

center court, his flamethrower debunked as a wooden paddle

blocking the windows of a tiny periodic table, the Queen's

answer to 3D specs when watching a jolly game of tennis –

his distraught, surprised, ranting mug a testicle emoticon

bouncing around on the clipped, fresh, dewy grass.

The rabbi carefully removed a pig bladder's left hemisphere,

a doorknob that offered access to a Ferris wheel – or

denied it by grabbing your coat sleeve. 'Now, a big butt's

center of gravity is tight-lipped,' he says. '4chan has

been looking for ways to harness this attitude to

suspend its incontinence in a magnificent shimmering arc –

your brain now, tempered by this clamp, will serve as a

gyroscope journeying through the august portals of the

aforementioned big ass. You will think yourself inside an

inflatable toaster; you will think that, in Hell, the inhabitants

are all prone to overreacting; you will also be equipped with

a Walkman' – dangles Walkman before my bulging eyes -

'you will hear it sniffing in your ears. Ignore it. Don't be

alarmed if the whole place from time to time looks like a

hurriedly abandoned meth lab.'

UNABOMBER – ANOTHER MUTATION

before David Copperfield realized that turning his apron inside-out magically precipitated anonymity, he was a mere alligator desperately in search of a fashionable, insouciant new angle for the lone feather that grew on his body

the bounty hunter that was after him liked the PowerPoint presentations that featured the optical shenanigans of Copperfield's apron and the comical desperation of his feather

sperm is the real people eater, and goes Arf! Arf! Arf! - like Hitler during a certain stage in his horrific maturation, the originator of the Wilhelm Scream after it dawned on him that he deserved to die, and that in disguising himself on a billboard as Marilyn Monroe, he needed to plaster himself affectionately in Jell-O, to stick better

the Unabomber has been having fun, for the first time in his life, with kleenex – wiping the Jell-O metastasis and pouring salad dressing on the raw, volatile substrate

when the gum next falls out of your mouth, Unabomber, you'll have a grand awakening