WHAT'S A HAT?

Thanks goes to the horrible chemical. The campfire story didn't

just come about, like a happy accident. And the teller's

tongue didn't consciously fan out over a bed of soft warm teeth.

Our attention voluntarily parallel with it. Ants at our feet

with their own dirty brown feet. At the drive-in in the crawlspace

of night. Not an accident.

The terrible instability of the mental image: the bad-dream Afro.

Touch it and you'll never be alone again.

The tension between the pale interstices of shed skin.

Your worm's discomfort and its subsequent overreaction –

when after the metamorphosis it was not exactly Charlton Heston-handsome!

Which is precisely why he's such a conversation piece. Not because he's

an onion covered in corpse paint; or because he's a toddler with glowsticks

for guts. Their pungency neutralized by weak porridge.

A witch tearing out of the toddler a ghost's ectoplasm.

Charlton at the dinner table of his own home

sitting there unrecognizably...

For in reality no one recognizes him. Which is why it was

an apocalyptic sort of campfire story. The apocalypse

is an abnormality, after all. An apocalyptic campfire story

is an abnormal, musky sort of hat. 

DINOSAUR LUGGAGE

Downhill, the phantom shambles. It's cold. It's

a clown. It isn't half the man it used to be. It is a computer simulation.

Is pretend-eating the snowfall oozing from the streetlamps.

Is not really hungry. Or happy. Happiness is erased from this phantom,

slowly forming a polka-dotted membrane. Decay of interior life has prompted

many gray, raised hickeys that fester and squirt lucid and gelatinous from

the rotting pumpkin flesh. Breaking out and expanding like diarrhea

in a condom. Curves swarm.

Thanks to the sensitive hairs on dinosaurs, luggage has sex somehow.

Oh, how it snaps shut. Much better than crocodile luggage.

Upgraded to new knurls on the handles. Because testicles are the tassels

of self-awareness; a warty texture under your fingers when walking with

them through the hotel lobby. The soft organs inside?

Dead clothes make their own like horns. Their wearers

domesticated into deformity. A good suit that makes your

head look like a Venus flytrap. Stung by your own feelings.

No cream on your exoskeleton.

A man can be ordered under hypnosis to have a crippling fear

of fake blood. To fear a person's entrance into the room.

There was a time only a fog machine could've made a

random person's entrance into a room terrifying.

Now the gravestone's mullet is back,

and Voldemort's prosthesis looks like shit.

To sleepwalk and awaken in all the wrong places? Don't have it in me.

LOBES

Last night the shoelace was less hungry,

interlocking with itself a hundred times under your bed. Voices.

That Bluetooth, cancer-funneling earpiece, its chapped foot

placed squarely on the surface of your lumpy interior circuit –

voices like a dismembered subconscious dropping

from its dry black trunk veined patches of stereo.

Your neck cranes round up toward the deep ceiling;

you glisten. Creaking with leather, wooden, makeshift biomechanics.

Kindling stacked parallel like bright highways – or a shaved-off chimney! -

you burn amazing at night.

With interrupted lobes – or a thought like a child's fist exploding under the

jigsaw puzzle from Hell – keeping your boredom

floating merrily on. Asking forgiveness from spores of dark.

Some flat thing heading for you, at a speed resembling a skull

resting slackly ajar. How long before it reaches you?

Or at the speed of a spade. Maybe it is a spade. Maybe you're going to get

hit by a spade. Maybe it's a spade that's going to hit you. The life cycle of

a spade:

its heart hinting at a mere bolt.

And (motherfucker!) what a hip replacement, after a hundred of

these contortions, must look like: caked? Such a

God-made contrivance, you swear. The solar plexus makes decisions

for us because you're folded double, about to give yourself

another blowjob.

It's going to be better than the previous night's

human-beltbuckle interaction.

DISTRESSED CLOWN

The fan is personal.

The garbage onto which it blows is cursed.

The fan is smiling through its pubic hair.

From almost every piece of wood's center reaches a yearning coil.

Look into the universe: don't be distracted by what's in this poignant cluster:

its joined paperclip population. They're just amoebae trying

to gently amass some frightening body-weight.

Life on earth, seen through the graveyard's shop-window, 
started out this way. That's why my hand's amping up its

madness. Squid molding suckers on the very first 
typewriter's silicon keys. Compiling a strange hollow 
omelet... 


Meanwhile, reliving some pretty sordid sadomasochism on the Mothership, 
a clown is scratching its tick-bites - each scratch leaving variegated 
sun-flares, or drops of melancholy oozing into perishing rubber. 
His drooping pants a distressed bumper deflecting a death ray. 

UGLY TOGETHER

Our ugliness together proliferated across my lawn. A giant head

repurposed from a doorknob, really gory. But wasn't it a comic book head

whose true specialty was the sore serrations spiraling outward from

its eyes? In my hands pointed at passing motorists? A toy that looked

like it belonged on an abject sitcom, with the flowing movements,

when it spoke, of the paranormal instilled in formaldehyde via a USB hub.

Much, much later – in an effort to launch it blazing over the treetops –

I knelt down grimly over my Gilbert chemistry set and mumbled to

the head on my shoulders:

“Have you ever slept on a dissecting table?”

On my flesh-eating lawn, that afternoon, we played a game

of violent Pong. The monster entangled in our limbs had been freed and

we could shout to each other friendlily, across the bloody expanse of grass:

“Fuck your symmetry!”

There's no robot. After sex, Megatron's condom leftovers fuel the

neighborhood’s conflicting ideas about the household items these

dribbly snippets resemble. He is not clutching at his chest

out of context, facetiously, melodramatically – he is actually trying

to contain his leprosy. Pig latte threatening to spurt from the abattoir's valve.

BE A

DIY DREAM

Brain as network receives information via propeller.

Mini tail thrashing drooping down into basement.

Glittering information to be played back later.

One-footed creature walks on art deco bone.

When stepping on you, bone silhouette comes over you curved.

Made with orbital sander scuffling, not easily distracted.

Chemically traps those precious spinning dream-pieces. Punk dreaming DIY.

With one less chemical it's no longer recognizable as a ninja star.

Instant hematoma from spring mechanism in spine.

Your hostage is a dust mite it has that FARAWAY STARE of a dust mite.

Wearing dead rotten mitten re-animated by electrical kitchen toy.

Sometimes ghoulish stuffed animal as surrogate for space suit,

with a fine mist around your ankles. 

QUANTUM FRISBEE

up off of a milk crate

asto-excreting the pale goo of gravity

that's why, she says, levitation is stupid

shrunken head grasping sense of Air-Bag

and jarring windshield wipers made of bandages the

wound (he says) can see perfectly through...

in opera, elephantiasis is ingenuously used to

portray the decline of Western civilization

virgins' image-heavy pudding gouging –

whereas fucking brings you safely out of harm's reach

incubating permutations of hymen like pixel supernova

pawn shop fusion and the resulting vignettes, in

antique brass, of time-travel

makes your blood curdle

she says Fahrenheit, around the quantum Frisbee

between her legs, is also stupid

MELTING JUNK

My junk is not fragile. It just animates like crazy under brake fluid.

Last year it suffered an ailment that made it concertina jauntily.

Then it moved out of existence. I thought of it as the

waning of the Periodic Table's connection to its fleck-faced counterparts.

Decapitation creeping up on it but at the last moment opting merely

for mummifying its many-headed target. With X-ray vision,

with Wall-E-like fixation on my junk, that raw snowflake I put under

such careful supervision in various ways resembled a skin cancer baby

lying sizzling on a grille. It wasn't merely a cold planet

orbited by gender-neutral debris; it wasn't a novelty clock Time discovered

the cuteness and specialness of by melting itself on it. You don't

discover the cuteness and specialness of anything that way.

Least of all of my precious junk.  

PARKOUR

Repetitive degeneration

in dreams of cryptic pistol

Ignites the rabbit hole.

Nosferatu automated –

tooling through Yom Kippur donut

Parkour with spider legs.

Rising from the depths –

the abomination, on eye-stalks...

Dead pig's dong. And she says:

“Gonna eat it all by myself!”

The action-figure fucked and impregnated a

shaved bearskin rug with

polymers – splashing like barf on a

tile, spastic necrotic trapeze like

why do you turn up your

mouth corners? With roots in

plague cake tug-of-war

on roller-skates 

ENDOSCOPY

In India,

they see the ketchup figures: because

every endoscopy is being outsourced

weird CCTV thrill of midget vice

On the refrigerator,

anthropomorphic stigmata in red, stodgy array

the tallest LEGO in nano-mushroom porn sweater

its stuck stuffy peach turd

SCATOLOGY

an egg's asthma

to diagonally optimize 

chainsaw

laser fog

by a thread

going to hinge on

undead with Ford

thighs

T.rex roadkill!

safety pin emphatically

handling this

cheap special effect

like a kite wrought

from a diaper

innards' spillage: via beautiful

glistening garbage bag transmutation

the hydrocephalic Thwomps'

center of gravity

after broken neck

to see how

thunder fits together,

pull off stocking

for magic is

metaphor for

tweezers

Bingo for death –

old people wielding

electrode gun

alphabetizing skeletons,

bathroom walls

drooping depending

on rate of

scatology

RAY GUN

I need your constraints, crooked all up in my ego.

For pleasure, your pizza circuits can't be broken.

What they might look like in the heat of predation,

Transformers struggle with Rubik's Cube.

Imagine it. What it's like, for a celebrity, to sit calmly on

the floor of a jacuzzi. Ahhhhh. Slide-show of progressive lump in

macaroni. Is there a better spa, cephalopod?

Do you feel the metabolic mosaic corduroy interior ray gun?

BUFFY

Those vertebrae actually clandestinely end up comprising a significant aspect of the plankton shrine, to which, after being very melodramatic for more than two hours, the melodramatic gameshow host comes back, each night, punctually at 7:15, and says, “Buffy, why did those vampires reduce you to this?”

“I used to be a whole complete structure of beautiful crumbs. They ended my crumbs.” Ended my crumbs. The large mound of green fungus, or a part of the large mound of green fungus, fans of B-movies still recognize. “Well I can't understand the rest of you.” Well I can't.

“It's just a slight step down, career-wise. I used to be a great movie actor myself. And look at me now. A simpering git. But if I may ask you, Buffy. What the hell was going on in that instructional video you did a while back? Listen. If you don't wish to lose your real, or otherwise imagined audience – don't you dare letting go of the blender's lid while that … that horrible thing is still in there.” 

CATTLE

Man, binder for buffalo wings, constructs more aerodynamic

Mormon, or a bit less of his soul – but brown with the pressure

felt inside a bug, as of caffeine veining its way along.

A t-shirt's pit filled with curses serving as mere extension of moss,

crocheted controlled space so the bloomers of a hovercraft closes

dirty hidden joke wheels for inspection – in the cockpit:

Analog ghost. Sitting upright. Contaminated blue with its pincer.

Eardrum knowledge of direct fire hose, to noisily make pee easier –

the same thing that spews soothing blowing sounds

spins the hamster wheel's nerves unwound,

causing other things to speed up accidentally, to twirl out of orbit –

and in the end your dead-eyed cattle prod is something breathing. 

DEAD THINGS

Nostalgia inside my vampire, its weird rattling.

Incandescent pixel, the artificial sweetener that

chokes eleven tubular universes.

Sated, with a taste for being entangled on the tire swing of doom.

Sports equipment encrusted in Margaret Thatcher's

bum-sweat, in what's essentially her office chair's very soul.

Further down in the structure's pneumatic metabolism,

this telegram, this flicker,

turns into vague nonsense – that's how much my love blows.

Hydrating our shrunken heads, politicians inadvertently make them

smell like chewed pencils. But when I'm generous and kind,

my brain is like an ice cream popping out of thin air –

losing a bit of altitude, then poised perfectly on a tripod

in the basement.

This means to an end

is the first worm: gnawing on the

yellow pages where lovers' numbers are listed even though it

would prefer to just play with dead things.

MMORPG

Inevitably, the shovel entirely fogged up during the sensuous massage.

Cutting the tips of the giant non-human fork.

The tips' immersion, better than your cherry-flavored Christmas meds.

Cultural bathroom trash

is entirely overwhelming, Wall-E complains, and

'I am the Eraserhead baby!'

I want Karma that matches my stencil, lifted carefully leaving a

grin that looks like a pile of crap. The facial recognition technology

blossoms.

Feeling the urge to set her knuckles on fire,

Little Red Riding Hood in her dog poop skinny jeans.

Giving the wolf CPR in a MMORPG. To such virtual charity

the wolf responds, of course, by getting an erection.

A macabre DIY surgical procedure. It's like

growing your own slug psyche –

she's holding the Geiger counter in

grim anticipation.

A bundling cityscape, two or

three digital onlookers:

demons in turtleneck sweaters.

All the co-ops' paranormal activity

walled in by sleep paralysis, shaking walls,

iron bedposts, stained sinks, etc. Contracting

green claw in the toilet water.

Things, of course, don't have to be played that way.

ALTERNATIVE MUPPET

Butchers handbags. Blowjob versatility increased markedly.

Discarded leather spirituality: of contagious layers of

embarrassment volcanically taking over the world.

Happy with my new YouTube animal video in

which a Datsun gets clumsily humped, though. The cocaine rain meter,

always bunged with the grippe. And other classic signs of drought.

And meanwhile suspended suspension of disbelief lip reading a big,

barking dog -

But there are many other diseases and

the more disinfectants you rub on your farm,

the more a stray chupacabra's thyroid gland will bloat and bleat.

Once so romantic, Darth Vader now eats diabetes – and looks like

a wind-swept taco. Typically, pretty as an alternative Muppet.

An intrepid graffiti artist flexes his salad. Realizing

he's nothing but a hormone hung up on a crucified hobo –

schmoozing fatigue, his pajamas a strain of chronic GIF.

Whop whop whopping helicopter depression. Swamp Thing

when I'm alone. Its devastating impact. And on others. 

MECHANICAL CHICKEN

Since the euthanasia contraption incorporates all the dynamics of a chicken's calculated, beady-eyed pounce, it operates via mechanical sodomy. Smelly bait thrown into a particle accelerator germinates into hooves, curdling the breathing hole in your lunch. For one's self-image, it's lethal. But that's the point.

Like any junior lab technician who nervously keeps dropping and accidentally licking dangerous chemicals, when a limb detaches, I am possessed by deep space. There stands a hologram of the mutant intimacy. Myself and the men and women at seedy health spas definitely have a mutual love of its grotesque shape.

You may hook it if you go fishing straight after a natural disaster, or if you stand with a net in the neat medium strip of dye sprayed by a Ferris wheel. One's immune system releases a yeasty aluminum. With amazing felicity, a burning gland at the back of your brain calculates the probability of finding a gaudy souvenir like this in the vicious stranglehold of laxatives. From that strategically dramatic hollowness: premature ejaculation of the human arm. Separates easily, as the coupling of masturbation and leprosy will so readily facilitate.

LOST NONSENSE

haven't – unlike everyone else – been to the sun before

still heartbreak moonbeams cough gaunt

neurotoxins sewn into my perception of the graveyard's menacing architecture

toupee caught in bats, little bones' continuity-arrangement alarm clock-mounted

my clothing, like the moth-eyed black of the common solar panel, undermines my facial expressions – I'm desensitized to the weird emotions linked to them

pretty highly-sexed, a spoonful of breast implant equals a squid enema in puberty kilograms

besides that, a phobia scrunches my hair, and is also responsible for the piss on my hat

spiders thrown at my condition is like the gods' perpetual bouncing, beguiling and probably the only thing quintessential

clustered exposure without relieving angle

lost nonsense-obsessed, because I'm obsessed with the fact that each body lying here is lost nonsense 

BRAINS

crust-framed quarrelsome center

nestled in existential slice of bread

shard-shiny between facing mouths of stethoscope and metal detector

there springs a –

better reading from the breathalyzer that detects cancer...

and very drug-woozy prior to putting it to your lips

ramifications of Teletubbies coma, i.e. baby heads

bobbing on the tongue's cerebral palsy, that won't be spawned

from orgy with emetic toothbrush,

not if they had any brains.