TO THE MANY JANITORS THAT HAVE STARRED IN SCOOBY-DOO

to the ions undergoing Walmart's brutal rite of passage – robot vegetarianism is often the right swab

but have your salivary glands be very beer-thoughtful

you will emerge tired, haggard – a traveler on the edge of a hairy stellar polyp grasping at objects – most notably the blue hopping subliminal vaguely Coke-a-Cola-like truck – knowing as certainly as you know anything:

Traveling by Tardis induces constipation.

in the mouth of the sacred cow, the harmonica's puffed-up neural circuits –

like any good outfit complementing a large tongue by spreading itself corrugated-thin – performing symbols almost as well as Rorschach origami – like the Batman logo sallow-weeping

Scooby-Doo puzzled by your average fistfucker; the mystery framework at all times faithfully adhered to – it's astonishing how the locks they'd pick they'd pick with suction cups

skull of Yoda, a trough of impenetrable meaning nestled in its prognathous jaw – the glow in the dark immune system sliming up the cave's walls Shaggy's puzzling over, now, asking – while the janitor grins behind his mask:

“How sensitive must sushi be before it starts vibrating? How obscene?”

OTHER PEOPLE

Other people are a logical poison.

The intolerance Rolodex

of this beta humanoid

is calmed by Xanax bone-pedaled.

An eccentric carcinogen on the wind of

the parrot's diarrhea propeller – plus other people

are yeast fused with the deep whiff.

Swarm, cloak, encrypt -

fish scales faxed individually

at high speeds.

Just count the amount of X-rays foraging at night.

Lying in a Transformer mold instilled with deadly social skills.

And so genes eventually turned out to be a parable for plastic,

each gene a sun-bleached lung doddering in

an inflatable swimming pool. 

LSD OFFICE CUBICLE

What's the two-headed mailman doing eye-fucking that un-enveloping arcade game? In a room of pure oatmeal forged from LSD, you're just so many dots and checks and stripes and vomit-colored specks nursing on the appendages of that badly patched-together Sims clown.

Part of a society of neon thumbs on the emetic disco ball prior to its slow decline in a pet cemetery as a Halloween hairball casually sleeping off its variegated scales.

The veneer of a thonged mushroom much needed by the post-apocalyptic office cubicle not too much of it else the desk might end up looking like Manga boobs on Ritalin bouncing beneath a stale weave of led.

At the controls of the vending machine a Nazi's abused foam rubber pet monkey teen heartthrob catamite just released from the same dreary office cubicle where on its desk a friendly centipede demonstrated the art of teleportation bit by segmented bit from one edge of the desk to the other while somehow managing to midway arrange a hundred tiny dirty sneakers in the shape of a pentagram in the midst of which took place a form of interspecies congeniality consisting of dust motes and blinding sparks.

Briefcase-flavored brainwashing like geriatric martial arts snorted legs first the dry psychic cyclones on the inevitable comedown hand-standing in freshly vacuumed amnesia.

SCISSOR ARM LAMPS

Bloodflow

without the electron of hygiene.

Forklift mayonnaise. Payphone as Skittle bait.

Snail jaw.

Both legs amputated,

the maid's temporary affectation

and my bathtub's beard.

And my bed.

The knitted junkyard. 

 

Hello, drunken guard dog.

My what romantic chain rust.

Your owner's trepan –

how long now has it been a portal for cat food?

'Sorry to hear that,' the cadaver told itself,

after getting a stroke.

After dithering for a spell – Sputnik rammed on the go-kart track 
by a supermarket.

By that wearer of ballet slippers.

WHEN YOU'RE SERIOUS ABOUT BUNGEE JUMPING

Subsequent to acting very surprised – let's say you

were actually very, very surprised – you may burp up a

little bolus into your palms. A symbolically pregnant malformation

of a breath. Then, it suddenly becomes clear that

every emotional response of the radio specter outside your window

is assisted by dark matter unfurling – a sort of tongue leaching into

the galaxy's wheelbarrow. Like a pap smear.

Your deathbed's antennae will lilt – and we might as well

have communicated with God using bedposts – your infatuation

with astronomical household objects will find a foothold

via a new type of sonar: a connect-the-numbers drawing of

a scary sex toy. But petals have built an oil drum

around your body. The woozy-looking bug on your sleeve has promised

that self-degradation would stop masquerading as suicide.

PIG

An X amount of bird

crap on the gargoyle

makes it look like a

Klingon watermelon

But if you want to

talk typical

heartbreak,

go watch

a loom flossing

Or as a Eurotrash

beast

traffic light hybrid would

put it:

wisdom teeth have no awareness

You may choose

to believe

Hasidic vertebrae

stew in strawberries,

or to think

the jaw a coaster

internet meme

The mouth: a foot spa for human remains

You may choose to

detect bath salts

in the brain

scan of a

pig

you

pig

DROVE OUT GLUTTONY

Swooning, a conduit formed by velvet's liquefaction, is enviable:

To lie down slowly in the nitroglycerine dregs at the bottom of what used to be an old lady's large brown swollen hand –

an AC's alcoholic smell

had played the saxophone;

had relieved it of scabies, until its knobs were no longer touchable

The fact that so much uneatable is addressed to your linoleum

a unicorn's comparative skill

like the scratchings in dried black syrup.

What's worse, the bubblewrap valence of a refrigerated pie

or the mortuary's pantry motif?