TRON - live sack

the super

computer's inner

tongue-shaped

planet's

Victorian deep-

throat mall taste

gall paste

flammable beneath our grasp

a snail rim

brain

interface

as thick-skinned

as alien

wrestling

laundering sweatshirt signals

teabagging occult drones

rasping; crawling away in the depressing LEGO gutter,

a sack-enlivening

box cutter balancing

tenderly on

our biology's

sagging sepsis, with the irreversible arpeggios of pulp on a defibrillator.

TRON's canine complexion widens with relief –

poop cloning in the program's yellow eyes.

Talk about a traumatic reversal.

cryptic Tupac

Bog damage obeys its ramifications' insane assault leak, with graceful incongruity.

Hear the quarry's thrumming asymmetry. Splashy human being. Creampie interlinkages feathered in a grossly solid romance of honky diabetic offshoots and poached kid toy. The smell is not the only thing that improves. Derived transcranially from a clown, its poetic permutations pluck the passive intestine from a hot rod. Tupac is a two-pronged cryptid that coughs raw tranquility into the back of beef's throat. The cripple's rise's parts' sheen. A corruption of transparency; a theater seat grimacing beneath sex offender robot soldier balls. The numb glam of desiccated parking lot animal sacrifice. The absence of a theoretical butterfly limb contaminating the forest's complex vertical upholstery.

RAPE VAN II – another mutation

I lose hair in a trance. I then pay bogus money to get rid of this head of

recursive frisbee taint. The bane of flower petals not sitting flush.

Humpty Dumpty's scientifically impossible nipple ring

glances his lobster windpipe, which looks more worn with

each eerie, doorag-inverting exhalation and each chugging,

navel-tessellating inhalation...

Accidental religion under Airwolf's morgue hood.

Lumpy drips abracadabraed by the wifebeater of an aroused/accursed wife-beater.

The loose gravel proliferating around its Emo pump.

Proving memes have the lifespans of rubble.

And bear suits full of cum are a foible of the slave hordes,

long after their collective fungal bathroom fluff had clogged the gills eroded

into the cardboard cliff cutout in front of the villain's stuffy lair they

helped reticulate full of detours apropos of nothing. Shadowed roadworks,

gash-like in the glare of the kidnap-ambulance... 

sirens

Mutation corrects the snake’s migraine eyelid.

A mass of kinetic ectoplasm unsticks from my leg, delivering

the pizza’s glans.

Happy processor and liquid hashtag meanwhile align into anatomically neutral hemispheres –

i.e. a grid of psychosis rolling across gaping little trunks on a demon axis of severe plush.

Alarm cancels the voice in my head.

Revenge as a stimulant dyes Snow White’s vine meta-ghetto.

Necromancy haunts death’s inflation with fantasy static.

The amusement park levitates

as one piece of holy

rampant silicone.

Eyestalks succumb to wonder, not alarm.

Carlos Danger!

A clown has browned this area. Carlos “Bunsen burner” Danger's

science experiment conjured up a lifeless bicarbonate of soda burp,

by contrast. But an alleviated wormhole is still a ramifying wormhole:

IBM-noir innards – electronics as arcane as Bolivia, as heavy as New York –

purveying McDonalds as abstract as a virgin. Personalized resurrected fudge

compressed in a mold like the amygdala on LSD, pushing out through

the Martian layers of Batman's svelte rubber. The object of a tick's addiction

now singes its face. Sometimes an opaque coil strays like a black pube from

the otherwise transparent disease. Moldy pollution eclipses the hellishly bright

depression in those eyes, but soon settles and sticks to the floor.

Suddenly, in the clearance, you're being fondled by a plant. Face to face with

the plant: pain's beautifully fractured travels mirrored in the plant's sweaty face.

You two's two-headed mouth temperature; as warm as washing your hands

after the massacre. Nursing the bottle's cork remains demeaning to the blue

sinkhole of divinity. Groggy suicidal falling blocks are more widespread on

social networks. The Balrog's jumpsuit is sunshine-covered and its crotch

dispenses uranium PEZ. 

CELESTIAL CHIMP - 40

In the Belgian Congo, Tintin thought maybe the primitive skateboard the locals put under the turtle was supposed to serve as the turtle's legs, mentally.

But there was nothing there except wooden turtle.

Maybe only darkness suffers from halitosis.

But there's nothing there except darkness.

A corset tied tightly around pharmaceutical vase water can fix the incontinence of somebody downwind. Make room for a lot of laughter, because a whole face is returning – make room for a face returning – a whole map of a face.

The language of eggshells articulated skintight in hubcap pottery.

The Crypt Keeper basically only rakes in what's left of the darkness.

In a car's headlights, darkness is a ruin of darkness. Darkness goes out with a glug of enema eyes in unambitious curdle.

There is restless saturation in any sluggish toilet paper, mental or inanimate. A face haemorrhoidally dim with beached chin.

100% defacement of a turd run over in traffic and/or gas bent saccharine.

The sudden loss of sound when a car radio is turned off is a shock and a distraction, sometimes.

Fossilized toilet paper is now the weird annoyer. Leathering back to leather on the fossil's toilet paper side.

You can't see the ninja because it's invisible. Talking to the ninja is like talking to a plank in the floor.

Stand very still and don't make a sound.

The natives imagine what Tintin must look like through electronic eyes.

100% chameleon-green, but flexible, responsive to color – a psychosomatic trampoline of circuit board alchemically haemorrhoidal on the robotic sock of weird electronics.

A dream is a balloon that bleaches instead of pops. Like a monster toppled, it becomes transparent. The look on the bleached haemorrhoid's face is of a face given back its normal pH; the look on its face of a face drinking its own spit.

On the notepad beside the telephone the haemorrhoid Tintin had doodled out of boredom with a sharpie haemorrhoided – out of boredom – into a daylight-impaling haemorrhoid.

“I'm here,” Tintin wrote on the daylight-empty page, “in a primitive country, to study the vagaries of growing one's pocket calculator inward.”

He later awoke in the wall of the doodle.

The footprints he left on the beach were alkaline. 

THE END 

CELESTIAL CHIMP - 38

Using the creamy artifice of gravity, Gollum sits on the couch.

Which, through the same artifice, he has puked on. 

Deep-throat pastures recover the yeti's aura in forgotten old lung.

The pool attendant's tongue finds the same harmony in the farty skidmarks of CPR – flexible toast in the ensuing blotch-pattern; corpse-indentation loving it some hydrotherapy from the last magical driveby primate. A crunchy embolism soul-cleanses on the laser's crank.

The pool absorbs a dull clunking. A comet is steered by its own septum. Energizer bunny goo becomes airborne by its own useless weight.

How many levels of chlorine are we talking, grandmother-soaked?

My brow is dry and old. My brow's aura is keeping its goose feathers young.

Fat, open-hearted sinuses: lurking with how many levels of pool attendant?

Shouldn't the mouth I'd made space for in my brain – the only brain in my cluster of craniums – have eaten a wet electrode by now?

In their View Master, my tits enjoy the comforting blur of a carwash vaudeville.