THEREMIN

garbage on the dance floor, vulnerable 

a disco bleeding

fashioning a video game from an X-ray blob

a grottoed world 

your coffin spilling 

egg wind wound up

joining a dummy in my bed, scalpel dangling 

hairspray touching filth

slime conforms, 

feeling it has something to prove

parking a plastic bag 

ate something invisible

only this transplant will save the rat's floating brain

if stained yellow Y-fronts had superpowers,

they could fit bees in rectangles 

no side effects

beautiful sounds of a theremin as a fish approaches the line

FIT TO DONATE ORGANS

Scooping shrimp from his gaping wound, the organ donor notices how, like all

things making their first egress, they greedily lick the bathroom darkness. Time

heals some wounds; but a mere clumsy hand can interrupt time, and if you're in

a time machine, it will stall, the slowing vortices attempting one last time to wring

from its petrol tank the build-up of unusual sugar. The wound now sees Magic

Johnson looming above it with a plunger, God with his tool controlling the

universe's contractions. Since this is the exquisite, but expected effect of the

utility, the shrimp all get erections. If your eyes always sat on stalks, everything

you see would also bear the exact appearance, shape, and would happen to have

the same dimensions and slicked with the same amount of veneer as – indeed

would not even be a replica it basically is the ketchup-stained Formica-planes of –

a bowling alley ... Down which the Batmobile cruises and dropping from its rear,

and arrayed behind it in such a fashion as to severely concern the shrimp, in

nature highly superstitious creatures, are black anal beads. From all the ensuing

bug-gasms, the patient's blood chips, a process that gives off weird lens flare and

Magic Johnson attempts to catch it with the universal Toilet Plunger. From the

countless hours in hospital watching infomercials, fitness and yoga programs, all

hosted by Octo-Mom and guest-starred by her abominable children, the organ

donor's blood has learned to curdle, and then to miraculously turn into a human-

shaped smoothie. This is does now, for being hospitalized is good: you meet

famous (dead) people, you see monstrous aberrations on television, there's

always a game console wedged between your cheeks, distending your face into a

meter-wide grin, and as an invalid you get manicures every five minutes,

anything you do will get you laid, and deep in your ears are the imaginary sounds

of lawn sprinklers. All your fingers are pinkies. You're extraordinarily,

overwhelmingly fit.

NECROSQUIRT

In which the astronaut had been hanged.

It looked organic under a microscope.

Space was that able to refine his mud.

Before it lost interest, gunned

him down from an airy black baby stroller –

his wardrobe a personification of

the staplegun's healing doom –

robotic holder bled his asshole,

retina buckled, the moon lost resonance.

The doll when provoked by candy was gross.

“Necrosquirt.” A fart slurping through the widow.

NASA brought heaven down and fried it

in a saucepan. The astronaut took

one look at light-blue muscles in a jar;

it looked like Freddy Krueger sprained

his face. “His face is now shit.”

NASA screwed our finest radiators

to those goddamned rockets.

ISSUES THE BORG GRAPPLE WITH

Issues the Borg grapple with:

empty margins, hugging,

walking in empty margins

but also hugging

Issues the Borg grapple with:

ubiquity, ubiquity as extension of SELF -

ubiquity as parlor trick

as pain, pain in the beauty of ubiquity

and fucking

Issues the Borg grapple with:

fucking, fucking's cosmetic benefits i.e.

fucking's cosmetic poke, plus

gadgetry, i.e. relief in reinforcement

it provides, and sandwiches and also fucking

Issues the Borg grapple with:

sandwiches, what to wear,

and cruelty, cruelty in non-wearables,

non-wearables at H&M, a wearable cylinder

for their inner gerbil,

but also bubbles

Issues the Borg grapple with:

gargling, gargling to produce comfort

and bubbles, and respiratory bubbles

and bubbles produced by dish-washing liquid

on dishes in general

Issues the Borg grapple with:

what's comfortable, what's comfort? a lot of comfort

in pissing on non-integratables

why?

comfort, a dollop of implosion of ice-cream

of meaning, meaning, meaning in feeding in general

and in eating on meaningful dishes in general

Issues the Borg grapple with:

panic attacks, panic attacks

panic attacks that pass on phosphorescence

and die as a coned heap of salt

and saltiness, and talking, loving talking

but also loving talking on Skype!

in but not outside the margins, also bubbles

HORRIBLE SHAVING ACCIDENT

Then creation stole her companion. Who'd been busy shaving.

Creation couldn't work its own fucking jaw – nor its captivating

number of appendages. Which could at once torture a puppy

and speak like a calculator. Some smoke vibrating

in empty insect rooms.

Creation of the broken ballet, from now on – enjoying the

same horrible freedom as, but less stable on their legs than,

the porn star's haunting jello implant. Perceivable pant screws;

walking down the street with all the kinks of a flatworm.

He put a doormat where his chin was, to cover up the ugliness.

He trimmed the hairs of the doormat. Cruelly, she told him:

“Gardening the doormat leads to much

more coarseness than a good shave...”

She finds him less tempting but more mysterious since

that last accident, which removed his chin and half

of his earlobe, and made him talk in parables: warning in

a prophetic voice to be afraid of the toilet

that didn't flush. Of the drooling hamster head

disembodied more mysteriously, this time.

Chinese whispers more bouncily weave their

way from the Tesla telephone mouthpiece

to the blank keyhole earpiece. “Monk trimming his pubes”

was the original message but the one received

by the monster was “Diaries of the Taco's lost pube”.

SLAUGHTERHOUSE NUNCHUCKS

in the used napkin, dimensions melt

the scars of Lazarus are of cork, and he

was raised as Katy Perry –

with proportioned splatter

the toilet's great hair discharge

rip in coma grows bigger and what escapes gets old pretty quickly

degenerates into elevator music

breath: a thoracic loss, coming in boxes on a conveyor belt

murdered in a pillow alien invasion –

capable of bunning very nicely

sandwich catheter; or crust shape-shifts into Bruce Lee

“but I'll cut off your supply with a razor blade,

lobotomize your gargoyle

pee stain your lampshade”

he's itching from huffing Botox

he's crippling already-dead animals in a slaughterhouse with nunchucks

he's a rat causing the pussy to crackle

volume changed radio station altered – radio switched off

GARBAGE PAIL KIDS – ANOTHER MUTATION

Placing it in cereal to give it extra buoyancy, I modified my bong

into a space station. Christmas tree car freshener hanging from

the foggy mirror. The higher we went, the more I understood the

mirror's act of reflecting: it was more a View Master than a

mirror, and functioned via ghosts or the ghosts of things slapped

onto a bed of fine, regular-spaced connections. I don't quite remember

when Wolverine decided to become a bus driver in order to feel up

old ladies in their ascent up the stairs – or when he retired as a narcissistic

cave-dweller simultaneously in love with his many penises hanging from

the ceiling of his cave and bemoaning their gimmicky ability

to grow back after slicing them in half with his blade fingers.

“How does it feel when the blades come out, Wolverine?”

“Boners owe a lot to the philosophy of regeneration. But no, you never

grow used to the hemorrhoid, space-insect egg feel

between your fingers, despite the strangely familiar consistency.”

I'm not quite sure at what point I walked in on Heidi Klum with

one hand massaging guano into her skin to rejuvenate and augment body odor,

her open pores alternately sucking air and polluting it with endoscopic

visions of colossal squid, with the other hand diddling a

Garbage Pail Kid whom I see hyperventilating on the blood-warm

concrete floor of his tiny bedroom and repeatedly self-decapitating

so as to expose a complex, disconcerting system of cartilage reminiscent

of a piranha mid-nose job. Architecturally, a slaughterhouse

draining bubonic milkshake. Decoratively, a birthmark's weird

color contrast when, after no longer being able to stand the room's

nightmarish twilight, I suddenly turn the light on. The frog skeleton

in the birthmark now disembodying, now fossilizing, now merely

rolling in happiness...