Saturday, March 1, 2014

Vital Signs

My main vein Tyson Bley was taken by the darkened rain. What can one do in a crazy world? gobbet publishes your dictionary. gobbet broth is made.


period arcade

on my period
I put my dick in

mooning mall brains precludes the bud
cogs inked with a holiday-themed bloodbath
vapor mellowing to invisibility has no structural problems:
people and shit self-cancel prettily
the Kung Fu faux pas of
polio juddering piggyback
excrement arbitrarily at the start and end of a stroke 

I merely dress the damage in a wrapper,
my beard amended by
soaking up electromagnetic spume
I chew diapers and grow a baby cheek

What do you want, blood?

so hot

Phew, it's really hot today. There are many things a bacterium can be happy about today. Amidst this mass regeneration, the mortuary is even more laid back. The solar glockenspiel kneads a corpse's worth of Nutella with its apocalyptic horse sound. My KIZZ poster is warping. It looks as though Frieda Kahlo drew dicks onto Gene Simmons's face, one of which takes the third exit out of the yawning head, caught in Houdini-like circulation behind the lumpy fascia, sticking out through the bland blood in his Lassie eye. Caulking up its circuitry, the id clicks and pops. Narcotics are palliative like that. The phantom drifts by low enough for us to be able to staple a sweaty scalp to its black spot or hang a noose around its hanging eye. It takes a happy toll on the schizophrenic's tie-in dungeon, from which dank revelation mudslides into the tea cozy of depression draped over his scared crack. I don't fucking care if my bong is louder than the buzzing of our 'sun.'

GG Allin's lemonade stand

From my lemonade stand at the back of beyond,
I hate people. Devils come to rest with the harsh
allure of bugs against the backdrop of a gaudy plastic
tablecloth. To me bugs are so beautiful, they're embarrassing,
streaking the sky's leper imprint with yellow chemtrails
that branch like stab wounds in a swamp of human flesh,
a notch of death coming to rest snugly. Trickling over the
Outer Rim of more creamy corpse-rape on stage in
embarrassing Mardi Gras costume, in a bout of execration,
I bite off more than my tiny cock can chew. Rusted air passages
turn into slippery rails traversed by shivering smoke,
elasticated in different directions like Grand Theft Auto
coming to life in water: slapstick fulfilled by a wet leaf's lick.
I'm known by the sputtering of spastic unborn war-rats.
I'm the shadow defecated by a dumpster, zero metronomic
to the stale air. 

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