THE SECRET IS EMPTINESS

Properly understood – i.e. trampled everyday –

the carnivorous pavement becomes an existential trampoline.

The secret had merely been cloaked: it was sickening.

For a good cause, the city's gutters therefore began to smell foul -

air after pissing its science; snow of vintage, yellow-edged

index cards used at witch trials – to stink out

new contents. But why would something precious be so annoyed

by everything? From hiding in a possum's armpit? A gift card dead

inside, dirty car innards spilled from it on opening: dirty car giggle...

For the next hundred years, Hewlett Packard will produce taxidermy

that will have the most disappointing hydraulics.

PayPal's jaw will drop, and stuff will hit the floor.

MALE PATTERN BALDNESS

With a glob of soot's high degree of accuracy,

male pattern baldness settles in guano.

But the contours of the speed of light are sinful – Kung Fu emissions

like those of The Last Dragon's squatting in his little terrarium

atop the old lady's mantlepiece. His acute demonstration, the

next moment, of the interchangeability of a cheerful morning person

and a flamethrower. A versatile wind-up toy, lewd like the animatronic nun

in the romance novel. Yeah it's misty, yeah it's steamy, and the

facial recognition software recognizes all faces

at the health spa as those belonging to Jar Jar Binks.

THE ITINERANT BEDBUG

Brain activity of bedbug visible thru grenade's gills.

Concise machinations not lost in shock ripples' expansion

against skin's grain. Less hard-boiled potato singularity accepts

wetsuit fashion from the future. Angry Birds eyewear a necessary symptom.

Albeit saturated w/ tiny channels. Stroking along grain unsatisfying;

to itinerant bedbug, sensorily equatable to roadside zooplankton.

Unseen trench coat leaking advertisements of itself.

Visually cauterizing boner Obi-Wan flashes into webcam.

Killer dynamo edit. Robotics' uncanny trauma. Prefers threesome logic.

METAMORPHOSIS – ANOTHER MUTATION

use the

ghetto hangover cure;

starve a tissue box

feed a system of

colors

itch sizes

of mammoth

the morning after:

cryogenically paisley,

7-eleven's tweed scalped

forget fear, sport

a crotchful of

Star Wars merch

it wheelchair hunts bears

that crunch underneath

like glass

grief's television

open to interpretation –

static of room temperature used needles 

 

brain-dripping antler shrapnel you

go talking your

head into

purchasing that

haute-kettle telephone

that Armani

waste paper basket

the maid's broken ankle

sticks out of

seduced out of it

in mothball metamorphosis

NECROPHILIA

Weird-dream crusts ironed out.

They make make-believe roast

under local anesthetics.

She also felt the cold entanglement

while watching Tron–

her own special mind trick

[which] consists of fingers.

The aesthetics of such a cadaver walks

the fine line between Elizabeth Taylor

and a cordless icebox.

I shit myself

a delicacy –

[from] an inborn seedless

spray can.

Necrophilia contains

Ewok hygiene's

possibility [of] nut beer.

Despair inspired by a metronome.

It has moved; I shouldn't eat anything.

The sound now

a mere shell of the former doorbell/

a false prophet's t-shirt.

On the slab spatially elastic,

mining the soul's gazebo.

Absinthe reindeer aura –

666 mise-en-scène.

Like the embarrassing cliché

[of] the passive-aggressive shoplifter.

NO ORDINARY GUTS

Making pancakes – and pancake masks

in particular – a safety tip for if you're going

to be using a crowbar:

Do not swing through the two points on the pancake

at the estimated areas behind the pancake

of your pancake-making buddy's eyes.

But would it be such a great loss –

if their eyes broke into shards?

Porcelain eyes shine through pancake,

they are hard to miss, but with porcelain eyes,

nothing can be told apart

from anything – neither you from others, i.e. in

public, when for some reason you crave

to be told apart from other things,

badly. Porcelain eyes are useless except for

being beautiful.

Also in this crowbar-related accident your friend

might die.

And then come back to life.

Who cares.

But it's gross.

Resurrection after a week or month is gross –

if you've been waiting this long

for the traffic light to change, at the traffic light,

not in your car,

but in a hospital bed you've

accidentally weaponized – with your stink,

your corpse gas, your green volcanic

pustules.

Discharging a load of phlegm

is like scraping your esophagus

across a dump truck.

A group of gambling

hobos staring with their

eye sockets: with their mummy anuses.

Shuffling their cards

sounds like very fine, dusty diarrhea...

Moving slowly past shop windows large

windows actually large

televisions; hobbling past

the advertisements:

a transparent embryo advertised

for smuggling stuff in

startles its pale, sickly, greedy

one-person target audience.

'I am smuggling something I've forgotten what

it is

is it

important?'

'I'm feeling a bit better knowing I've cleverly

bullshitted myself into believing I'm

feeling a bit better!'

At the nearest restaurant on the menu:

a pill

with a hole

in it.

'Our washing machine make

tiny pill from fistful of bones.'

At the waiter's words it is very

easy to crumble into yourself, like

wanting to cry when receiving

sympathy. It means even your clothes

have gone mad. 

In laundry that has been institutionalized –

in mad laundry –

viscera play with themselves,

and now I know they are no ordinary viscera

they are an octopus cosmonaut,

way more mad than

the homely guts of e.g. Bigfoot.

THE MATADOR VS. DONALD TRUMP

The Freudian, medium-rare steak is a musical

whose crescendos flies are chemically drawn to

orbit in a black mass. And a corrupt cop made of rubber invariably

sits somewhere in the audience, clapping.

The dull slapping sounds his claps make.

Back to his coffin after the show, inside,

the weird behavior of his elbow, jiggling,

as if trying to find more room,

an ancient newspaper resting on his chest – its

weird humming sound. The newspaper's.

The corrupt rubber cop is weird.

His victims have also told him so,

with an awkward laugh. Their awkward

laugh-patterns. Due, perhaps, to having inhaled

an illegal gas, which the evil cop made them inhale.

The corrupt cop who is made of rubber hates being laughed at.

*

* *

We go from one dimension to another by blinking.

The dimensions are captured in triangles in the blinks,

the same triangles that form in tissues when we drop

them into a blender. In one of these dimensions,

Saatchi deemed ping pong a high art form,

praised Ice-T's echolocation abilities.

The way it deforms space. Others ascribe

this feat to the telekinetic prowess of his vomiting.

In one of these dimensions, Saatchi says the tampon gloved boxer

has revolutionized art. Others say a vaporizer

is an instrument of nihilism. In our multi-dimensional universe,

this is code for: all enemies agree with each other.

*

* *

Convoluted defensive movements

aren't what you might expect from

a badass matador – but look at what's heading

for him. Just look at what's zooming in his general direction.

It might also explain why the matador is wearing

a bio-hazard suit, an old fashion accessory

from his days working for a German scientist in his laboratory:

Coming for him at speed is Donald Trump sporting some

horrible strap-on device, ball-shaped and glistening,

also wielding a pair of horrible tongs. Festering

in the corners of his small, lopsided mouth.

The matador hadn't been this afraid

since he was a German scientist's

lab assistant and had to fend off

a giant insect.