NUDITY IS OMISSION

The constellation seems to cling. Mouse embryos

stab each other in their Martian jelly sac,

superimposing pee stains over their mother's moon's

hip, a comparatively small space to get clean.

The sprinkling wastes itself. With odd new body posts

imitating her original form, Snookie will come back

to haunt us. A prefrontal blob gyrating in a spoon

so that you cannot possibly shut off your mind.

The mutant is just my mess. A sombrero refused

in the crypt's shifting. Two things could've happened

to the surviving mouse: it could've set itself on fire in its

earth-return. The killer robot's Heimlich maneuver could've

uncoiled it. It could've simply fizzled out on

the killer robot's hand towel. Little bastard, you

could've given us all a very exciting performance!

A surge of blimp beneath the leaves. When not overrun

rich with snorkeling, nudity is omission.

A large, large, pleasing, pleasing capsule.

ARTHROPODS

When you touch the Cookie Monster,

it feels like touching a horse.

It's hard to keep a deathbed's resin

off any such lush blue surface.

One could've sworn the final husk was

a lab-grown basket, death dragging it

straight faced. His poop-trails of comet rust.

The rot swinging through a mesh and making

his mourners spotty. Defacing the walls

psychedelically. A gallstone on a tether

keeps misaligning with its profane inner

grime. Forever seeking what constitutes a

Tic Tac. You have lost your badass filaments.

One tonsil is arrested electronically; the

other is a pop-up smiley attached to

a pedal, pops up, shadow boxes its hazards.

In life, one is not as pleasant as two.

In an alternate dimension, the mite merely

sits there, exhausted. It is a celebrity, therefore jaded.

Star of a medical blooper reel in which the arthropod is

circumcised with a fork. There's a din in the

background, not laughter, but similar.

There was only one fire extinguisher that

Freud ever found cute, for the same

reason Professor Xavier, his head baldly displaced

in headphones, only psyches out black trannies.

A straight jacket's auto-feeding habits

spindling truth in leather. A square diaper.

Long-legged, suffering from the glare.

MIX TAPE

I made you a mix tape. I was the axe murderer at the

open house who was talking too much; we briefly exchanged

glances. I was still preparing to be blown away by a miracle,

like the last time at that yard sale. Now I've resorted to

making mix tapes. Baby, to enjoy my mix tape you have

to use a cushion. And it requires sitting on your cushion and

staring. While absorbing the mix tape, stare. Copy its contents onto

your contents, softly: a feather recessed into the rough outline

of a dinosaur, looking into the middle distance. Before all the

blood cells are allowed to become willowy, the panorama's

undercurrent must first be slathered on with a stick. Diarrhea

separates from the burgeoning self-portrait, before landing back

in it again. A dishwasher's suction conceals as much as possible

what lies before it, like a monger of nothing. The latter ability is

important for enjoying my mix tape, though it steals from

the ability to talk normally. You can only talk when thumped

on the back with a palm. Those very distorted images behind

a leotard. A water balloon effecting the joy of a tiny muscle.

It shows how close we are, baby. How tight. Your smoothie,

with its look of PVC. My pivotal silicon, with its look of a

wrapper in that shirt. A Mexican wrestler. Who will

let themselves be as easily popped out of their holding joint?

An existential coffee mug mined until saturated, a giant head

boiling. Lay's Potato Chips crunched down to melting between

the thumbs of a demon wanking its hand flush with bile,

very bouncily.

NASAL DECONGESTANT

I confuse twilight and its rolling shadows

with the meaningless, hydraulic cramping of Post-its

curling yellow from age. When all else is dark, I bake bread

in HD. Still, audible within the calipers of the bread's look

of dry lips is a very typical American hysteria.

The strips of public neurons sweaty nasal spray

wiggles its bum crystalline on. Phonetically, the

hysteria's bleeping is difficult to understand.

The clock's absence of compression marks in gum

after using the latter to stop time.

Jean Claude Van Damme has a little scar on his knee,

a small scrape or square, broken off. Axis of a

generic mosaic. My bum is balanced unassisted on his face,

the side profile of which then gives a cut-off impression.

Invisible escalator rooted in punk eczema.

Santa meeting roads without numbers to houses.

All eerily modernized, flats no longer merely waiting,

but flexing. Mini golf played thrashing like a

Swiss Army Knife's temper tantrum. Scientists know

where to look to see this: billions of years ago, two minutes

before the Big Bang's scrap metal casually pooled.

The parabola Ayn Rand's pencil, wedged in bath salts,

died at the completion of.

NATURAL GOBLIN

With a superpower of old-growth its bite

felt fully clothed. Helium cleared the shark's

strands of dead-inside. And its claw

mushroomed. Well, you must have good taste

before you can perform surgery.

Entertainment is squeaky around a regular

appendectomy. We are all entertained around

a regular bug. Our hairstyles are all clamps. But

luckily our genes leave our skulls unaltered;

only as babies and as chocolate do skulls

usually make the perfect additive, raided

by terrorist groups; animated when close

together. Terrorists' terror of photosynthesis.

Of nature's purple nod. Rotten eggs flash

when changing hands. The goblin appears

so natural. Awakening with the impact of

entropy, which digs gruffly putting you aside.

When I casually put anything aside, it makes a

zapping. I want a regular bug. It's a risk to want.

I can so easily want the whites of an alien's

eyes squashed in a cave. Come, spindly earthquake.

Stop, horror movie about awkward rag doll-

hunting Tampax. Or go, up to you. Over there,

in which the supernatural is being so terse.

It's application evincing cough syrup on a

random steak. It forms a field. The most conducive

environment for aerobics-spigot interface.

CHURCH BLISTER

I either leave the miasma

a-flutter in my helmet

or I go down with the lamp's

network of grab dust, dropping

at times hazily –

but those little bones

mostly kiss linear

to avoid self-elimination

with a suture's squealing noise

riding freely back and forth on rails,

never turning or cross-hatching

despite my ambition, I was merely once the

anatomical grit's reversed, canned cell nebula,

that could be sprayed in various corners of rooms

as stick-on ooze –

the cluster-thumbs' produced waste:

the memories that formed darkly ahead of the waste,

falsely secure in relation to one another

my mom said she had gone to the prom in claymation sequences;

if she remembers correctly

my dad's exoskeleton kept tipping over all the time;

I believe that, I'm sure the memory is not false

they eventually found each

other in a heap of buzzing,

and then everything in the world

imbibed images, and shat images,

perfectly parallel to each other

such perfection cannot possibly be recalled,

even the blister they got in church at the wedding –

apparently, any swallow it did went along

guts skewed into a perfect parallelogram...

fuck, for all I know cattle in the Midwest

wore blood vessels as underwear, in labs electrodes

went black in monsters' budding wrinkles,

and all the gasses released here and there were prone to

caking, and those gasses that weren't thusly prone

deformed at relatively slight touch

I had already once

hacked the pavement in front of our house to cancel

pre-existing letters, had known care and love for the

letters I destroyed as a symptom, unavoidable and over-

powering, doing whatever it was this symptom did

without significant smearing

ROBIN WILLIAMS STARING INTO OTHER PEOPLE'S WINDOWS

Clown tenderness plays its hives in two.

Around the dizziness, enough vents contract.

Ice cream's live, coarse fabric, behind which

hunches a tired radiator. A parallel universe

is a plethora of glitter huffed. A traveler

may get there by scalping a prawn faded.

Only to find that hoarding is purgation.

Before the oatmeal rolls outside from

a gloomy Nerf ball spending this Christmas

compacted. As shocking as straw found in

the T-1000. Perhaps, especially after this latter

disappointment, you wouldn't want X-ray eyes anymore.