SOAPSTAIN

WARHOL'S SEX DOLL – ANOTHER MUTATION

2012-02-22T09:58:00.001-08:00

a random deletion renders Taiwan flat

everywhere you look, hobos napping in crusty wrappers

everybody just wants to be sexily disjointed,

like the gimp god Oprah

but a bomb's anatomical tissue

makes a mess, Nintendo abstinence

reduces me to shavings –

wooden pegs preserved in rabbit barf,

thumb tacks littering hemoglobin

on the cutting board –

robot bone sweater tits,

amphibian penis down Warhol's iconic trash chute –

I am the friendly towel waving at you from the other

side of the dinner table, your thought

bubble can't be more explicit, and is also made

of rubber

LEGS THAT HANG IN THE AIR

2012-02-21T14:23:00.002-08:00

rodent drips

song stuck in my head

candlelight transmits religion

home-canned

mathematical mouth bacteria unguent Anti-Christ-swilled

a Grace Jones exoskeleton slumberously dry above a dunk tank

went on a drive-thru DNA replacement

engendered leather hairless anemic

locally-grown

colliding

cookies abortion

engrossing deep throat

soaked with baby seal menswear ranch silica,

trans-Happy Meal

a covered in warts fugue

FELINE SOMNAMBULISM

2012-02-20T14:55:00.000-08:00

jujitsu mind-control, 4 chops of surgical peyote lightning

on my geriatric cat, 1 speculum for all intents and purposes

wielded by carrion on itself – it's as grave as the atrocity

the cat had narrowly avoided fooling around

in the backyard hammock – why else would

his asshole look so funny?

a whoosh of life's 9 heartbreaking lawnmowers

already inflicted on him

a streak of silver baldness,

he kicks and farts in his sleep, meows like Jimmy

Hendrix or Bruce Lee,

voodoo mistaken (naively, by me, the other members of my family,

the maid, the dog) for a transfusion of synthetic noise

via his cerebral cortex into an inanimate dollop

of inglorious railroad poop

hauled in from miles away, in the dead

of night, and – still in the super-villain grip of sleep – affectionately

dropped into his litter box,

wished upon, kneeled meditatively in front of,

neon specks of enlightenment blooming across

his mindscape as the wooly fungus of the dollop's spirit

is consumed

EXTREME HUMAN BEHAVIOR

2012-02-19T13:07:00.002-08:00

Blood zero isn't just a color, but a language, a little bit

like a yell, wrought in prolonged exposure to the

television set. Science, in distilling the blister,

has at last stumbled upon something perpetually

spooky. Though it's just another isolated district

that's emerged, this time, gawk: like your eyebrows are on Viagra.

Like you're staring at graffiti on the mirror.

Like you're in the middle of some sort of cinematic fusion,

at the movies. Then, faint: because you're at

our latest depression theme park gawking

at the love child of several discordant vortexes. On board

a tiny UFO cruising along streets of bones.

Scavenging through our factories (wouldn't take the

alien pilots long to discover an abandoned smelly vest,

to figure out extreme human behavior

in a twinge of Axe body spray. Free will:

the natural environment for mechanical parts. At home

in the cheesecake control center.) Wind-rust tilting

the animatronic bat. Canting … swerving … landing

and skidding like a peddle, once, twice – no,

FIVE OR SIX TIMES – in the park's bird feeder.

SEXING LETTUCE

2012-02-17T15:05:00.000-08:00

I, a consumptive elephant, cough diphthongs chain.

No broken links. Just heat. Although a hacksaw

levitates above the frost; it's indescribable.

One sees a turtle masticating lettuce on the ottoman.

You can paralyze its ambiguous smirk, with a trepan and

a pinky slid into the gray morass within. Morbid

roast; incontinence of suede. It's your brain, ocularly
obtruding back.

THE VEGETABLE CORE

2012-02-17T10:27:00.001-08:00

the fruitfly's spinal cord ends in chunky scrotum crust.

like a common buzzer's radius pushing outward in

an explosion of dust. We are loud. Headhunters sidetracked

by moons, dangerously barbeque-prone. If you could

see a PET scan of our tastebuds, you'd see radioactive

pixels stacked into really cool afros, infinitely high and wide.

Stop talking in the movies. Its footprints are

Odd but otherwise the angel of death is normal.

We use his/her footprints as graves. They sprout

Hair. We shave them. The empty bucket by the

Priest's leg has dead eyes. After 5 mins the bucket

Is full of coarse black hair. Why does he stalk spirits

Around the graveyard with a can of sealant in his pocket?

sewers are also a component of the Force. Jedis hate veggies

and hate peeling their membranes. To us headhunters, the

vegetable Core is a little 'off-center.' The truth is pointless.

THE PEANUTS THAT GROW ON MARS

2012-02-15T14:00:00.001-08:00

a microbe struggling on the pale blue LED lump

such is life,

one man's suffering is another

mouse's gums fitted with a hundred

electrical outlets

–

always [man and mouse both] still easily leading to violence –

as the kindly astronaut lifts and shows us what

lives underneath the soft martian plaque: LOOK HERE

“all peanuts at one point or another switch souls,

all baptized in headphones, bum bum” –

that's why they're bald; and in this weather, heart attack windswept

“my actual shit's jabbering with

Burger King chin soil”; you can't really

appreciate how I'm digging this

ritualistic ice cream scars,

Escher's ominous roller coaster designs,

they enjoy merely a secondary beauty

but

you'll be many fingers forever

not with the hideous, infected

makeup of large feet suicide-wielding an ax at

the local gym,

odorous; though very nice pollutants form

their own crown of butterflies

AN ORDINARY SUBURBAN MORNING

2012-02-13T11:06:00.000-08:00

I want a foot rub in

the electric chair's pretty smog.

How about you, baby? You wanna see a

cross-section of my stump?

Cotton's gentleness on space-time.

One's home as a small area beneath the sky

crammed with deranged urban simulacra –

there's a tiny necropolis in the bathtub,

full of salts that really get under your skin...

Pipes twisted horrifically.

Like a model citizen, bringing your car to a halt

at the Tesla traffic bagel.

So much mud is thrown up the rear of the triangle,

a fragment of landscape,

an arcade totally dehydrated.

Jar Jar Binks' morning wood finding a home

as a sparking, crackling glitch swirling

at the bottom of a can.

TARZAN'S LOOSE COVERALLS

2012-02-12T16:33:00.001-08:00

Although a selfishly bipedal human, a fish is now in the way of my foot.

It feels loose, but fruity, like a carrot toggled in cinnamon.

This headache should be and in fact is sitting cartoonishly

in the middle. Its monkey giggles aren't explained. A sort of secret.

For I am Tarzan, an old junkie churning phlegm with his jaw,

kept awake by its clicks and nervously flourishing a pencil torch

into the dark recesses of the jungle. These days, I wear coveralls,

daisy cluster sideburns and maintaining a diet that breaks my haircut,

really fucks it up, softens but also cramps sentience's sexy garbage bag,

tightens its garter belt in the refrigerator. Diesel tenderizes

my cereal blue. Barf's weak Smurf valence. The squished bug

behind my ear; because our friendship was starting to get sickening.

INTERMISSION CLOWN

2012-02-11T19:27:00.000-08:00

You're a municipal object on which my thigh catches the instant kinky movement is attempted. Water on cancer. Tire tracks on a Pepsi can. Horizontal, mirror-smooth on the one side. Genetically engineered to stand there and express yourself like a road sign. Why don't you come out of hyperspace? Why don't you

make bumps and holes in toilet paper with your stilettos? Why don't you use voodoo to give my dog a severe case of bedhead? I love you, even though you're one of people, figures, shapes – one of the lawn chairs – adjusted to the picture with gum. Just another floatation. I'd like to find the ridiculous nucleus of the wet, white ball of crinkled newsprint, for it's a baby ghost. Which is cute. It's you; it's you in there seeming displeased with something. You wish that when your face expresses sincere anger, it would be comically contorted. Yes, it is, and your anger is totally out of context, and fellow gum-pasted creatures like you for it. Together we stand staring at an optical illusion of heaven. Is it safe to say that neurons hugged by sooty deposits have created it? The lights have come back on and I'm one of the lucky few to discover first hand the prehensility of the intermission clown's hair: grabbed over a distance of 16 meters, across 5 rows of seats. Detaching only when a voice says: “We're back! Ready for round 2!”

WHERE'S WALDO? - ANOTHER MUTATION

2012-02-10T11:20:00.001-08:00

I cured this tree by tying its blind spots together.

The sun in the back demonstrated how glowsticks eat their young.

Treadling noodles, the new ballet. The new

anonymous game show contender. Head like failed basketball seed,

decapitated – lifting it over its own lip is a pain.

They can't, for instance, be emailed until they've germinated.

But it's like quantifying a woolly mammoth. Namely,

it's a mess. What used to be a flexible croissant contraception.

Waldo on a blind date gawking at his crotch's oatmeal magic,

craving intervention from a lobster. The restaurant incredibly

few, and he incredibly many.

WILTING DISTANCES

2012-02-09T02:49:00.001-08:00

A contagion burbles in this hopeless strip club's candlelight –

troll semen on the carpet, or the sticky juice of Soviet satellites'

leaking, tinfoil diapers. Tampering with a spacecraft's bumper sticker

is addictive: until it looks like a fossil, but of the curio store variety,

hand-crafted, from so much wear, distance; wilted.

How many invertebrate fingers, stacked, smooth, served

in tasselled condoms, jaw-proof except to worm-hunters and/or

Blade Runners, have lunar McDonald's patrons dislocated?

How many llamas has Gary Busey, in Nazi uniform, a transparent,

geological marshmallow, his gait described in chiptune, chased

down pharmacy aisles?

I SHOOT SOMNAMBULISTS

2012-02-08T07:15:00.001-08:00

foreskin ultrasounds look very hybrid sock-middle finger

catching fire, filthy thoughts'

neon cognitive brace;

cold love passing through wiggling gills

accept your fate, Satan: entombed, loud,

ugly, uncaring,

edible, why not?

went from treacle

in TV commercial

to folded more flat,

cavities in sound-deadening material

sick-spattered on sanatorium walls;

sleepwalking ghosts

appeared angled

ARE YOU OBLIVIOUS TO THE SUFFERING OF YOUR PETS?

2012-02-07T15:05:00.001-08:00

While the rivers' stitches were coming apart,

and coal was losing its luster to some kind of

hungry fever, the Zulu found the dentist's tooth-broom

interface fun, as he did all other consumer electronics.

Pumpkin chest hair was the best at signaling a daily life

of hysteria phonetically. Rust generated mermaid temperatures.

They both used orange gristle.

In prehistoric unitards, we go to robots' funerals –

only the gnome priest is allowed to sport his mink coat.

We mourners are afforded a glimpse into a stereoscope:

we see automaton hearts beating in a mesh,

diseased-looking like a toad's death-roar, straining against a 3D

rash. Skin heated up in a noose. Algae

self-atomizing and thereby melting the glass

of the abandoned vending machines they choose

to fornicate in.

Out of how many bars has the now-teenaged Bart Simpson

been kicked because of his inappropriate leggings?

PINBALL PLASMA

2012-02-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

But some visual displays are hidden by the bikini.

An apparent flower in a balaclava!

We leave, because the sofa is looming – being a Transformer,

at one point in its metamorphosis it was just springs

and upholstery, a straight-jacketed spiral, like a fire extinguisher

running amok through a mall. Turbines for haunches. Annoying.

“It must,” she says, “at least on some level, be relaxing for a

Tourettes-afflicted ninja to deploy Play-Doh

instead of the usual throwing star.”

So we tried it out at my desk. It was a normal writing desk,

where instead of throwing stars we discovered moth fibers

damming up under the lamp. I placed my mug in it, to keep it level.

“You thought you were looking at a regular espresso machine, eh eh.”

(EH? EH?)

I kept laughing even as she asked, to evade notice of the

pinball plasma of activity on my desk:

“Do coasters regenerate? My dad was an alcoholic, right? And he went

through coasters like anything.”

“Whatever process this would entail, I'm sure it would just

result in another giant fried egg.”

(I'M SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR DAD.)

The sofa was behaving normally and we were sitting on it: it was

relaxing. “Isn't it weird how certain foodstuffs make you wipe

your ass with more than the usual haste?”

TANGIBLE COW, ETC

2012-02-05T05:33:00.000-08:00

Carrion has a shelf life, marked by a systematically

louder series of Wilhelm Screams. Upon final complete

expiration, it sounds like raisins sucked up by

a vacuum cleaner. What awe-inspiring music!

How forlorn yet clownishly upbeat! In death, you

begin to itch. All the molecules pause like fridge magnets –

meaning they're not quite dead!

And poking from your chest is a spider leg of

breath, testing its new roaming grounds...

I kept hallucinating this certain weird motion,

I kept imagining or hallucinating that it existed

secretly in every teaspoon. Or concavely: i.e. exquisitely shallow

surgical procedures on a lollipop. Giving off fumes.

Being marginally too close to each other, cracks

open and leak entrails everywhere.

People that work at abattoirs know this motion;

the French see its skid marks on guillotines.

In the corner of every doctor's waiting room is either a

bendy avant-garde artwork or a molecular

ball and stick model describing this boneless exit.

VUVUZELAS CONVERGED ON GOTHAM CITY

2012-02-03T19:04:00.001-08:00

And now the sprinkler's constipated.

A sparrow walks, then bounces, then casts

the shadow of its tail across the lawn,

funny despite the butthole.

There's a plane: it's the muddy sky pushing

a travel pillow like a crucifix underpants floatation.

The blemish's exposed wires. That's not a normal

on switch, Scooby Doo.

If you moisturize it, a vuvuzela can produce

echolocation second only to Batman's.

If it's a bedpost, you'll lose consciousness.

Mired in what the villain, a gimp whose small plastic

fittings that held him to the floor had failed, putters

rather than flails around in.

BECKETT'S FETUS

2012-02-03T10:43:00.001-08:00

every towel looks older than it is

I didn't realize this until I took ownership of a pair of hind legs

enzymes without craniums glance over their shoulders

toadstools perpetuated into the Ten Commandments' multiplex,

nipples intestinally, 3 children & stuff, and this new care about monsters

we all want them to be in us, their reflection rotted badly upon ingress,

with a hairless saber tooth epilating

the marquee of warts on the mystical latex

THE SUPER BOWL

2012-02-01T15:36:00.001-08:00

With a subterranean swell, the Super Bowl has released its biblical heartburn. In

the midst of this tiny orgy of Third Reich sneaker particles, someone's sleepy puppy has been re-animated. An ex-wrestler has plugged a sieve with his face, filling its windows with yellow nausea. Even though he's saying something, it's impossible to lipread what. Profuse sweating. His whole face now resembling a beached chin. Something sinister about the Transformer's friendliness to the left of me, dumping gears with the same slow lethargy as the handshake of the Sith Lord to the right of me. What will so many people think of my thoughts? Can't find a shred of tinfoil anywhere, so toilet paper will have to suffice as insulation for my beehive; with its interstellar radio text, and strategically pinned smiley faces, it is the most voluble, tittle-tattly telepathy machine in New Jersey – but otherwise a great depository for Kellogg's Corn Flakes.

GODZILLA AND THE SNEEZE

2012-01-31T15:32:00.000-08:00

mucus membranes generally

don't cope well in the vicinity

of Godzilla's gravitational nucleus,

subjected to the G-force of a bus

and unable to do anything to

change the course of a sneeze – into a

politer direction – or the roll

of a booger, nor anything

about the chaotic peripheral

phenomena folded into the sneeze/booger's

manipulated time-frame –

like no less than five grommets are

integral to the CPR dummy

making this really scary pentagram of slime

BATHROOM WIG

2012-01-31T11:07:00.000-08:00

“I'll mask my knowledge with an upside-down dumpster,”

the beggar thinks. “That way, CIA hackers won't get jack off me.”

“At the sewing machine,” my grandma said, “it's advisable to

put on your auxiliary visor.”

It was grandfather's wont to always cockily state: “In my day, lasers

attached to farm animals aided in the harvesting.”

Knowledge A: Cremated panties are bubbles.

Knowledge B: Each person is splashy when they die.

My grandmother said that, sitting at her old Singer, she was in close proximity

to the earth's fuel. She was creating, after all – though

nothing was really real, anyway, as our Alien overlords would've had

us think – they graciously put my grandfather's wig on the toilet seat

to simulate a seat warmer – “everything's a simulation,” my

grandmother liked to scarily hiss – and when I was little I noticed that

sitting on the wig, crapping, the same ozone was released as by an Ewok

in the electric chair.

The alien DNA with which I've been injected has to a small extent

resulted in deafness, but also turned my speech, particularly my

cries for help in the nighttime when I'm having bad dreams, into this

weird squawking which, after fifty meters, breaks into tinny clusters of

sound frozen in midair like noticeboard pins. I dream about the ghosts of

mites; they're clamoring for attention on the gothic tundra of

my pillow. I'm frequently very old in these dreams. And solar flares

erupt from my crutches – which I guess I'm OK with.

FRIENDS

2012-01-29T03:36:00.000-08:00

Ross was a Mexican hippie, as such his mental development had been directly influenced by swimwear fashion's assimilation of Klingon home furnishing. A surprisingly boner-inducing combination. Sun-bleached from too many episodes masturbating in the flat's solarium, totally out of sight from anyone except the animated Jesus .gif on his laptop. His health affected by the CO2 emissions of a contingent of porcelain Mickey Mouse water jugs instead of the usual cast members, for days on end. Under its heat the solarium can change the parameters of erotic toys' hinges – where we'd be looking at a set of totally different joints moving in swamp lava, skulls like bearings – befuddled by their amazing skull moves. Alone grinding a wedding dress from a sleek beautiful fish's tapering surface. How long afterward would you be licking your toothbrush? Did you know the little organisms that caressed the bristles had stone-blood in them? It was bought at a gift shop on a Klingon war vessel, its peeling decal on the handle was wonderfully sinister, disparaging Ross's halitosis instead of providing encouragement to combat same, also it sounded like a buzzer – totally bad (the toothbrush did) – as it brushed over teeth that craned their necks like the spouts of really hot beers. (“The set's atmosphere - the entire sitcom's atmosphere – is too funereal! I'm staying here!”) Brushed sort of between them but not really ... saliva full of isotopes that clumped into wart-like asteroids in contact with Jennifer Aniston's nipples, leaving the latter broken and tasting of wet glass. “Turn off the radio, will you?” she says – in his hair as he rolls over she sees evidence that wax and motion sickness DO mix. Soon conditions return to normal, they're listening to a sound that's still safe to listen to.

MURDER SWEAT PANTS

2012-01-27T17:10:00.001-08:00

The drive-thru is a more intelligent design than the mind's flutter valve. My trash lumped in with aluminum foil makes it hard for Walmart to interpret my thoughts in the dark. To know my lusts. Everything's hard to find in the dark, everything. The plastic bag they found on Mars was full of bile. Sci-fi flakes right off of my new couch like nanobot dandruff. Decoration of gingivitis. Toenails are about all there is to the sleeping policeman – I drove over it as fast as I could because the dinosaur was distracting – roadside entertainment; but the flowers were ugly. The essence of the lawn is the moist kidney stone. Your roommate on the Death Star's long dick. You fucking scream: so that the person on the other end can hear you. In the secret cabinet of the concrete mixer. Nausea knees while torturing animals, in killing machine-sweat pants.

“HEAR”

2012-01-26T15:43:00.001-08:00

Because every time in my lab,

it's difficult to see what

you can hear.

Mountain Dew decontextualized in the guillotine.

Heard or seen? You can “SEE” your amoeba tanning

under the Big Bang's ancient UV strobes, surely?

Kermit's lobotomy sounds crisp – e.g. a green tomato

frogging in a robot's armpit.

Puppets of a wrapped atom, pleasuring audiences circa 1938.

Before discovering artificial life, I tried to master/elude

death by taking my coroner on a romantic Ferris Wheel ride.

It also helped to differentiate death's usual kick to the nuts

from the eternally dangling solar rays light-seconds within

my grasp.

If from one day to the next 4chan can be defiled,

by a garden variety pork volt – basically by a homeless man -

cabbage can be turned to plush by chemistry normally

only good for scarring. Look up at the sky – and see

the claw marks.

I'm busy reading now that the gerbil is at its ontological peak

when on a talk show only without a helmet. Hmm.

PAJAMAS SORT OF DESIGNED AFTER ROBOCOP

2012-01-25T19:23:00.001-08:00

A delight to be rural driving, with a dead dove stuck in

the windscreen wiper. Then in the midst of that to also be

buried alive, and then also mysteriously wind up on someone's

windscreen. In the universe, miniature– in barely

a metaphysical matchbox. In fear of the cannibalistic chest pain,

stalking this realm, sitting on this realm. Pecking?

The dead dove consisted of coiled slimy tubes five minutes

later. Strapped down by an inch of avian yeast tongue.

Rural walking, at that spot where a thumb blackened USB stick

is purported to haunt people – when suddenly comes

the warning “[to not] walk there.” What the fuck?

Of all things, a shape-shifting retina begins to waver in front

of the unfolding nightmare. The Atari console begins to

come off onto one's clothes. The steam-powered finger

begins to engage (per design) in excessive medical gouge-out.

These are therefore the things that tried to remain united

but after a small incident lay littered everywhere:

i.e. shredder and mint – ass and donkey -

checkbook and rubber band. This is the ice age's broken glass

and these are the industrial pajamas born of it.