MY COMPUTER HAS A WORM

hard to undo its actually liking the fibers in my computer,

and it knows where it's going, as if it's been here before,

like a catheter turning just the right corner in the old IBM –

making having a chainsaw present desirable,

cutting the worm in half, two ends bolting blurry backwards,

a diet of bark around different honey touching. It likes rummaging

at a creepy volume, drilling, and singing, worm-

vaudeville in middle-of-the-night plasma,

in all modes after death mismatching its color to metal body

turning insides soft and leaving outsides hard,

modifying that old carrot into a leathery exoskeleton,

a subway padded until hitting the tougher head

bucket cartilages soon to become buoyant overflowing fluff

facial larvae compressing, sinuses knowing awkward clog,

as all things parasitic are propelled secretly from pockets

eggs dialed softly obliquely to eggs' own ingredients –

the Nerf ball's abstract as distinguishable from its teeth

in place of immediately transforming into the bright,

emotional arcade on a stick, for optimal disclosure wearing

on fingers the bacon light bulb, that causes an effect,

hooks a horror, fries a continuum, involves arbitrary

swarming of thought unique from supplying random access with

chopping up a dwarf, outside around among the toilet paper

refusing whatever would not load, having never known such hopelessness

yet so soft, the landing, it feels like passing from inside mice,

the worm making of its own body a noose to cancel its one

neurotransmitter pining in the comfortless unclear

IF TEDDY BEARS WERE SKINNY

see it in the shutters, with a bill gray

from catching the least moonrise

old, thrumming in Parkinson's glade

with a bit of zoology escaping to

fill bras' extra bit of space

her noise's influence on its bazaar

a mineral growing on the handle

Houdini's leash baked, an Oreo cramped

by the tumor watered

muzzle time and it would start

dry-humping the double helix

erecting the ultimate sexy Frankenpinup on the wall

smoking cigars adjacent to the pajamaed shark

Spider-Man still trying to counteract

the fizzing power-can left at JFK

he's a bit bouncy over harsh slunks

humanity fuels the papaya in me while

an era's nightsweat bakes

on the fender of the meat truck

giddily yumming in a ditch

this is the dark ventriloquy finally awakening

in Google's larynx a new sensation nods

peace crabbed Tupac skinny

for it was the teddy who was capped

EMERSON'S HANDKERCHIEF

In a diarrhea of fingerprints, teenagers of the Bible Belt text.

Quilting chromosomes from a mere stupid sentence

into sushi drift – a fatty smudge that blinds the metal detectors

hoary old men use to snoop for NASCAR wrecks in the marshes;

magnificent beasts dragged out on clotheslines.

Preceded by a hovering gramophone, guiding him with

insect prods to the local inn, the Sith stomps through town ...

by now the local pervert, notorious for his Power Point presentations

of motel skeletons hitting each other to pieces with a sledgehammer.

Morally an otherwise neutral topic; but the sound seeps through

the walls and seems to be attracted to peanut butter, becomes

one with it, and it doesn't rub folk right. Pond outtakes that

taught Emerson how to love his handkerchief – how to properly

use it after breathing ridges into his wax. Bog serum on your sandwich

after a scare like that, the new splatter that could've done a

pharmaceutical storefront whorly of funk.

He and Elmo shared a hairdryer, which bubbled mesmerizing

in the tub and whose blast exposed stickers on their faces.

Elmo noted how staring into a mirror was like

posing a tin upside-down; Emerson explained how to

carve black straw from a nun, her speaking thereby alternating

from a roar to a helium rustle; meanwhile a tiny yellow airplane

outside was spraying some bloodthirsty insect repellent –

turning everybody pale; the town's only Japanese inventor

was demonstrating his machine to a small crowd,

a computer that could do martial arts, its rural script

paving a fifty meter-long strip of dirt with one, subtle ankle.

SEWER FILET

one of the rugs holds my haze, not yours

ragged and dense and high and flat and splayed,

anchored to the floor by a near-dead dog's

longballs bobbing in the room below

unsaid shoe beheading on

a different lawn, in the time it took

to die into a cusp

our community is taking away less

and less, lets the sewer age into its own filets;

socially incorporeal in the same particle

is the most squid for a jumpsuit

there's an odd little fire on the mines,

tungsten in terms of closet air

pelvic in its incorporation of a street;

I like that I sign luridly before glancing by,

I wanna try a council block irreversible in the nose

if runny fails, dumb will handle the pressure

the motion simultaneously stops the unidentified

object bouncing on the bed,

until about the point at which, later in the episode,

sort of mixing with it, the ceiling grants us

the full ebay version of a context

we're generally, after every episode,

' - did which of the perpetual motion machines

this time slip in bird shit?'

KARDASHIAN YARD SALE

there's nothing wrong with

an Ephemerol baby training

its mental ice-pick on Mickey Mouse

– watching him go ball-shaped,

fractures in his black drywall

spitting and slingshotting –

any amount of decay tucked around

hot beer-vacating nano-cannons

at the frequency of a broken Santa lamp

and a hoarder's psychedelic candle

there's nothing wrong with tearing your sheets

between your legs in front of a specific part of dinosaur 

the noisy wart not scary on something like a Kardashian

trying to build their own porno “chair scene”

imprinted on our ears e.g. the demonstrably

nasty tone of the yard sale rectum

a toggle for easier operation

REANIMATOR – ANOTHER MUTATION

rot coils

inappropriately

after so long

on a shelf

a cogged corpse

of wooden &mdashes

hanging, I rather think

flopping around

after reanimation;

certain pieces

must go back to

the jar

I farm where

others do funerals

they ought to

donate more!

my entertainment unit

used to be

a robot snake

in a milk crate

that's all

it frowned all the time

& became depressed

even while guiding

one's soldering iron

over its belly

it tried to show appreciation:

a sack listlessly

remodeling itself

like a grimace

grafted into a

towel

it has passed away

I'm still going on

the concept of heaven

and God: bending

MY CAT'S SANDBOX, BROKEN

when I blink, said blink is offset toward the middle

making the blink look a bit misanthropic

I have accepted and embraced this phenomenon, as

I have my dementia, which is exactly there

where I rest my right knee

this might be related but it might not, but I'd also

begun to stroke my cat's sandbox – in time,

I'd broken its sandbox atmosphere

and plus into the bargain, the infinite broke,

in a gaggle of spasms on a tether

a sneeze pushed to the back of a windsock

a brawl in a bar, a layered, accumulative transvestite

I sat watching it and being part of the layers and

enjoying myself, feet clip-clopping on the floor's

absence of space, absence of floor, which was

littered with traffic info, still, neon green heads up display

for a true pilot of his horse-drawn spaceship