The Circle is not Unbroken

Frozen wilderness cracks my psyche.

The pain of an Allen wrench to the face awakens my hardness.

Sutures can’t hold the barrels in from the coat scene messing my drawers.

Frozen sandwich capsules eat lice for breakfast.

Steadfast tickle torture is unbecoming.

Cane me with the garrison of military intervention and stodgy old billionaires trickling Reagan down my pantsuit as I cry into a conch shell for summer: a regret hoped for too soon.

Candlelight vigil for your thoughts, anyone?

The cramps of my poetic, upturned heat nails crap themselves silly with Eden toufee while standalone elephants and grazing lopers stood away at last and kicked the bucket.

Poop in a larger bucket.

My news feed is a mess of store-bought peanuts for your penny candy machine gone awry.

Is a chocolate taco a narrative?

Puddle of Mudd is my favorite misspelling of Cheesus.

Having cake is like a sauna.

Paralysis mountain was like some kind of fun ride taken by your dad in ’72 when Uncle Daniel bought a bucket and put it on Margie’s head. Then the bucket began to cream and Lee Greer called across the U.S. of A. from Dallas Texas:

“Give me back my filet’o’fish,” he said, and his mother became a newborn child.

And then Chris Hansen stepped out from behind a curtain and said “Why don’t you take a seat right over there. What are you doing here?”

Lee said nothing, but Uncle Daniel knee jerked out of the ceiling whose reality was right next door and spoke in tongues like Harvey Weinstein’s belly button lint when it gave a speech about the Revolutionary War for my nephew’s birthday party. And then a murder of crows cheered like Grateful Dead fans. Spokane Washington became Uncle Daniel’s new favorite city. Margie’s bucket spent a billion dollars on room service and Christmas was saved once again.

Like Harriet Tubman once said: ‘Dastardly deeds trample the hoofed painkiller.’

Store-bought cakes are almost always an afterthought.

Table tennis top spin role-playing dungeon sprinkler bought and sold on the black market like Beatles records hand-pressed applesauce Jesus spoon fed me a taco and it sang beautiful music out of its ground beef corner. Too much hot sauce, the T. Rex donned a cap and became Margie’s bucket as it should’ve been before.

Gay people deserve all the shrimp they can eat at the buffet before Samhain.

Neckle freckle hig hine pan pleck sment monyy of core valu pin stroke put stum hell naw, the prison is of the mind … through the mind … the mind cage … the mind Reich … the closed off channels … the coaxial cable shorted out I know exactly whats wrong with me the circuit is broken … the circle is not unbroken God please help the beast allowed to bite through the bars below the abyss where the security is lax like fat in the blood like sugar in the brain like healthy food thrown away because it tastes bad.

Someone stop the mask-wearing Eric Stoltz Morty like Cambrian fiction grown in a vat for Valentine’s day chocolate pudding smeared all over the diaper walls contaminating the food supply a creAM CHEESE WONTON BOUGHT ON THE BLACK MARKET for Dolly Parton’s government social cracker handout stigelow like bean pizza mexico brought around like R. Lee Ermey’s reaching gold gauntlets into homosexual yearnings I sucked a guy’s dick and liked it. I’m gay. Congratulations. Thank you, I try. I hope I can rectify butt sex when the tube sock shreds and his sperm dangles from my earlobe so sweetly like the dripping pussy I never had like me for who I am and galvanize the market too late to stink it hates the loaf of its own boring pizza pocket existence.

McDonald’s is closed, and Lee Greer won’t be able to get his filet’o’fish now will he? No siree bob, he won’t. And let me tell you another thing: the Campground coffee chinchilla has been wasted for Sacandaga begins not now, but in a time sepaRATE from the current sex pupper hose machine scrotum basket pom pom penis nipple race bait Tex-Mex grill child thrill.

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In Time, Winter Snowflakes will Dress the Grave of Yet Another

We jump from drug to drug like sinking ships.

We slither out of soiled jeans worn one too many times.

Mary recommends this; Lucie, that.

All the drugs really do is wreck amends being made

To a spider web that stood for a century, only to be haphazardly torn

By a little boy running down the bank of a lake:

A mirror shattered and thrust into a mountain

Atop which a mausoleum stands.

The chipmunks of the forest stuff their cheeks

With ancestral memories that may just solicit tears

From a stone peppered with fragments of charred bone.

Summer will rise up from the forest floor only to fall again

And in time, winter snowflakes will dress the grave of yet another.

The little boy asks: ‘will the mausoleum doors stay open forever?’

‘Rest easy, child’ says the mountain. ‘Spring will open and Fall will close as long as the Earth revolves.

 

Gotta Smash ’em All

Nigel Thornberry wept with his gargantuan nose nestled in the flesh of his dead Gyarados. Its corpse had begun to stink under the hot sun.

“Why?” He screamed at the sky as snot and tears poured onto his mustache.

But in truth, he knew why.

Gyarry had perished because Nigel had committed the ultimate sin of the Pokemon world: he had caught and attempted to train a MissingNo.

‘Missy’ was a great asset to Nigel’s party at first, but then, strange things began to happen.

His Venusaur sprouted a second head where its flower should have been. Rather than follow Nigel’s commands, the Venusaur recited garbled French poetry while the second head gibbered the same poems backwards.

When Nigel had attempted to evolve his Eevee, it metamorphosed into a Rhydon instead!

Being the adventurous type, Nigel couldn’t help fooling around with the infinite rare candy trick. But when he fed several dozen candies to MissingNo., it began to level up in irrational numbers. By the time Missy reached level 54.728495960…, Nigel noticed that Pallet Town had become an actual pallet but with colors incomprehensible to humans. The trees, buildings and other trainers of the 2-D Pokemon Game Boy world had begun to extend themselves into the Third Dimension.

Since Gyarry’s and Missy’s Pokeballs had been right next to each other on Nigel’s belt, some of Missy’s garbled existential data must have leaked into Gyarry’s Pokeball and infected him.

This became apparent at the moment of Gyarry’s death. Nigel had commanded Gyarry to use water gun against a rival trainer’s Onyx. Gyarry, with his perception of reality muddled by MissingNo., manifested an actual gun, pointed it at himself and blew his own head off.

The majestic water snake had fallen to the ground and blood had pooled beneath his shattered skull. Nigel had run toward Gyarry thinking, oddly enough, of how perfectly suited his nose was for running at such speeds. Nigel’s aerodynamic schnoz could probably reduce enough drag to shave off ten seconds or more in a hang glider race, give or take.

“Gyarry!” he wailed. “Gyarry, why?!”

Nigel lay huddled and bawling over Gyarry’s corpse, the tip of his nose grazing his buddy’s scaly blue skin. The other trainer had called the Pokemon Center and, fifteen minutes later, two Nurse Joys arrived to cart off the poor, dead creature’s body for a postmortem examination.

At the Lavender Town morgue, a Nurse Joy and her Chansey assistant wheeled Gyarry’s body into the medical examiner’s room. The Chansey handed Nurse Joy a pair of bone cutters, but before the nurse could cleave Gyarry’s rib cage, a human arm busted out of its torso.

The Chansey and Nurse Joy shrieked and leapt backwards.

The arm reached for the Gyarados’ mangled head and whipped off what had apparently been a mask the whole time.

“I’m Gary Oak, bitches!” the brown-haired boy beneath the mask sneered.

“How did you … how …” Nurse Joy stammered.

“No time for explanations,” Gary leapt off the table and tore off the rest of his Gyarados costume. “There’s a Nigel Thornberry whose face just screams to be laughed in,” He cackled and winked at Nurse Joy and Chansey. For a split second, his body became all glitchy and static-y like an old TV. “Catch you bozos later.”

¥     ¥     ¥

That night, Nigel sat in his apartment alone, drinking raspberry iced tea in front of a switched-off TV. His wife had left him years ago, taking the kids, the monkey and that feral jungle boy Donnie with her. Nigel had decided not to continue with his nature show after the divorce. Instead, he resolved to become a Pokemon master by the end of the decade.

But catching and training Pokemon proved to be lot more difficult than the former Wild Thornberry could have ever imagined. Over the course of five years, he had only ever caught one Pokemon: Magikarp. Bulbasaur and Eevee were given to him by Professor Oak out of pity for Nigel’s lackluster training skills, and MissingNo. had leapt into one of his Pokeballs of its own volition. Nigel had never bested any gym leaders either. He was content to simply battle Rattatas and Pidgeys in the tall grass surrounding his apartment building.

But now, his dream was crushed. His precious Magikarp whom he had raised into a Gyarados one painstaking experience point at a time was dead for real. No Pokemon Center could bring him back.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

Nigel, dressed only in a stained t-shirt and a pair of tightie-whities, didn’t feel like answering. The only people who ever knocked on his door were solicitors or HUD representatives inspecting people’s apartments for Caterpies, Weedles and other verminous Poke-critters: the ones whose final evolutionary forms were so lackluster that no one ever bothered to try and catch them.

“Open up, you big-nosed jerk, it’s Gary.”

Did he say ‘Gyarry?’ Nigel’s heart thudded, but then the truth dawned on him. Oh, it’s just Professor Oak’s douchebag grandson Gary. What does he want this time?

Nigel shuffled across the room, his bare feet crunching various food wrappers and TV dinner containers. He opened the door a crack.

“Move aside, numbnuts.” Gary burst into the room. “Quite a dump you got here, Nige,” Gary spat on the floor.

“What can I do you for, Gary?’ Nigel sighed.

“Nothing,” said Gary. “I just want to make fun of you and your shitty-ass apartment. What’s this?” Gary picked up a set of plastic rings once used to hold together a six pack of canned beverages. “You’re gonna choke some Seels and Laprases with this shit, you asshole.” Gary hung the six-pack holder on Nigel’s mustache like a Christmas ornament. “There ya go,” he laughed. “I have another piece of news you might like to hear.”

“What is it Gary?” Nigel thought that if he provided bare-minimum answers to Gary’s queries, the little twatnozzle would leave him alone.

“I killed your Gyarados. In fact, that overgrown blue penis-looking thing you loved so much was never real to begin with. It was me in disguise all along!” Gary laughed.

“Very good,” Nigel chuckled, but deep down he wanted to wring the puny fucker’s neck. So what if child protective services were called on him. At this point, he would prefer life in prison to living without his Gyarados. Failing at being a Pokemon master was, Nigel reasoned, tantamount to failing at life.

Gary began to rampage around Nigel’s apartment, picking up things both functional and broken and throwing them indiscriminately across the room.

“Fuck you, Nigel Thornberry!” Gary threw a Doobie Brothers record at the TV and it shattered. “Fuck you and your lame existence. I’m glad your fucking ho wife left your ass. Your nature show was stupid anyway.”

That was it. Fires redder than Nigel’s hair and mustache began to burn in his eyes. He balled his fists.

“You can murder my Pokemon,” he growled “and you can destroy my stuff, but nobody refers to my nature show anything other than …”

All three of Nigel’s Pokeballs exploded their contents into the room.

Venusaur the French poet, the Rhydon who was once an Eevee, and the scrambled existence known as MissingNo. appeared beside Nigel, ready for battle.

Gary laughed so hard he might as well have been rolling around in the trash. “Are you fucking kidding me? Sorry, buddy, but your entry level retard circus ain’t gonna put a scratch on my Mewtwo.”

Nigel stretched him arms out as though he was being crucified. MissingNo. broke itself into bits which flew up Nigel’s nose and integrated themselves with his body. Using MissingNo.’s paste-like qualities, Nigel fused his lower body with Venusaur. The Nigel/Venusaur hybrid then fused with Rhydon, creating a chimera with the armor and horns of a Rhydon, the flowery appendages of a Venusaur, and the face of Nigel Thornberry.

“SMASHING!” The chimera screamed.

Using the MissingNo. particles in the Chimera’s arm, Nigel formed a giant hammer and smashed Gary Oak to pieces.

The pieces sat inert on the floor for several minutes.

Is it over? Thought Nigel. No, it can’t be.

Nigel observed that the shards of Gary Oak were made of garbled bits of letters and numbers like MissingNo. That’s when he put the whole picture together:

Gyarry had been infected by MissingNo. ever since the glitch had hopped into one of Nigel’s Pokeballs. The damn glitch had altered Nigel’s perception of reality in such a way that the Gyarry had been Gary Oak the whole time. MissingNo. was not only capable of altering individual perceptions, but could fuck with causality on the objective level as well. Gyarry had been himself, MissingNo. and Gary Oak simultaneously and all along.

Faced with MissingNo.’s seemingly limitless powers of reality manipulation, Nigel realized he didn’t stand a chance.

As he suspected, the fragments of Gary/MissingNo. began to reconstruct themselves. Nigel needed to do something about this quickly.

But what could he do other than pray for a Deus Ex Machina to intervene and save the day?

Gary, now completely reassembled, opened and closed his hands and grinned at Nigel. “You can’t kill Gary motherfucking Oak, you cocksucker. You of all people should know that. Nothing can save you now. I could murder you, and my grandpa’s lawyers would get me off scott-free. You know why? Because …”

“You’re a motherfucking prick?” A shrill voice sounded from somewhere outside.

“Who said that?” Gary looked every which way. “God? Is that you?”

“Close enough.” A boy in a cap stepped into Nigel’s apartment. “Ash fucking Ketchem at your service: ready to wipe the floor with a certain trust fund kid’s stank booty.”

The Nigel chimera balked.

“You’d better get out of here, mister,” Ash nodded at Nigel. “This dickhead has a level 99 Mewtwo and he ain’t afraid to fight dirty.”

“I’ll join you,” Nigel assumed what the Thornberry family called a ‘fighting stance.’ “Two versus one shouldn’t be against the rules in a self-defense situation.”

“There’s just one problem with that statement,” Gary smirked and indicated something to his left. “This ain’t two-on-one.”

“Be careful,” said Ash. “He’s got girth and knows how to use it.”

A lightning bolt struck an empty Dorito bag. From its depths crawled a wriggling mass of peach-colored flesh. The fleshy mass expanded until, standing before the bewildered duo was a fat man with a butt-chin wearing nothing but round, frameless glasses.

“Peter Griffin to the rescue!” The man made a noise similar to a sheep bleat.

Nigel took this to be laughter.

“Snorlax, Muk and Thundercat, I choose you!” Three Pokeballs fell from Peter’s ass cheeks. The tubby sleeper and pile of viscous fluid appeared, but the third did not.”

“Thundercat?” Peter bent to inspect the third, unopened Pokeball. “That’s weird. Let me try hittin’ it with something.” He grabbed Gary by what Nigel assumed was one of those new pocket sausages everyone was talking about: the ones advertised in those magazines hidden behind plastic barriers in the grocery store.

“Hey!” Gary yelped. “Cut it out, you tub of lard. This is a Pokemon battle, not …”

“Got it!” Peter bleated once more.

The Pokeball burst open and filled the room with pink light.

“Grab on to something!” Ash screamed in Nigel’s ear, “or you’ll be sucked in.”

Peter’s laughter could be heard getting quieter and quieter as he, Gary and both their teams of Pokemon swirled down the pink vortex into a kind of world only Pokemon understand.

“Thundercat, eh?” Nigel stroked his chin. “Is that one of the later generation ones?”

“No,” said Ash, “Thundercat isn’t a Pokemon at all. When that guy Peter tried to summon it, it must’ve reacted badly with the MissingNo. virus and created a temporal/spatial distortion. My advice to you would be to find a way to detach yourself from MissingNo. as soon as possible. If it comes to it, you might need to start a new game and overwrite your save file. The MissingNo. glitch is bad news. I’ve dealt with it millions upon millions of times. One-in-ten of the Third-Dimensional Gods that control our actions have and will continue to try and make us capture it. As sad as it is to say, that is the nature of our world.”

“But if I start a new game,” Nigel broke in, “does that mean I’ll die?”

“The current you will cease to be, yes,” said Ash, “but when you reenter the body of your assigned Third-Dimensional God, you can always name yourself Nigel again. Since ‘your’ memories are also the memories of your God, your personality and experiences will remain intact.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” said Nigel. “You might even say, it sounds quite smashing.”

“I like that term,” Ash smiled at Nigel. “It’s so … you.”

“I concur,” Nigel stroked his mustache. “I concur.”

 

Needle my Oogle Poogle like Charles Manson’s Chihuahua Piece Gone and Zanged. 

Paralysis warm butter bread

Paralysis, dialysis plastic head

Canteen soup kitchen bottle rocket heat drone

Metal shaving spider spear wendigo chair cane cone

Dime plate named Nate shy boy chamomile chai

Steven University diversity button mutton chop comb cred

Damn you danceable, laughable, lovable handle bar crepe

Rape my tombstone eyes: scrape my bones with flies

Kill corn, kill cares, kill krill in vats

Bill a bong with a bat and play taps on a danger wrap

Margot Cuvier can kiss my killer app

Pants can placate the sedentary segna magus tickle pit trap

Camp my bell bowery ding dang diffly in tipple willy wang

Needle my oogle poogle like Charles Manson’s chihuahua piece gone and zanged.

Let Breakfast be your Catechism

Excrete blogs like meatballs.

Claim excess baggage.

Right wrongs horsing hedgehogs over mountains like bears.

Halve your heart rate with dialogue.

Stand between your mountain and the Fonz.

Let breakfast be your catechism.

Watch Stan Lee’s mother masturbate with bristly brushes used to light her son’s tomb on fire and summon crawlers with hearts open to storm trooper paradigms, equality housing and banned books in barns stapling the source from which marsh maladies soar like pigeons punctuating torque, loathing and swan songs for Jesus and his pogo stick melting eyeballs for charities warmed by cemetery fires.

Let us pray for tampered evidence locker porta-johns emptied into the mouths of trolls too caught up in momentary relapses to care about hygiene and crystal cauldrons full of crawfish laughing at God.

Only a silly little clown penis could dream of hydrating such flowers.

Let pogo stick Jesus knock some sense into Galilee: for the walls are coming down and frowns will be turned upside down like a barrel of monkeys dumped on a carpet soiled by many a baby dick in 1993 when lullabies cracked mobiles and Winnie-the-Pooh bit the trunk of a maple tree planted back when war was ripe for the taking and Winston Churchill slipped a silver spoon into Oscar Wilde’s pocket.

This incident alone was enough to write sodomy into the computer code of England.

Some say Churchill didn’t survive, but who cares what those Cockney bastards do, say or think?

We will scale the brick wall of crime.

We will inundate outer space with our purple-dyed semen, ’cause why not?

We will eat the last croissant, and the croissant will hate us for it.

Gramma will forgive us for cussing in her living room on Thanksgiving.

Tacos will be doled out to trick-or-treaters traveling six years into the past to be with her as she dines with Oscar Wilde in her home: a place where baby dolls sleep and dream of substances coating the innards of cornucopias we’ll never lay eyes upon.

After losing the Chicken Wars of 2039, Texas will launch itself into space.

The exchange of hostages between Texas and England will make Mother Bulldog proud.

Puppies will spawn from her forehead.

Sodomy with hot pokers will level up threefold in the crater formerly known as Texas.

Sandwiches will henceforth be considered unstable.

Hatred towards unknown shapes will taste the mercy of a diamond-tipped hamster.

Will I ever be able to cancel out the sunrise?

Maybe.

But I need to remember: male nudity is no excuse for torso farting.

Winston Churchill will not water the graves of fallen kamikaze pilots with sake or worship the atomic bomb that never was.

He won’t make reindeer legal again either.

Pour your American hatred into your hat, place it on your head and soak your toupee in juices too sour to drink.

Phasing In and Out of a Painful Flower

Sad sandwich torso mechanism, inflate my bologn.

Center for fucks given, eat me out of my house.

Dracula stole my bourbon; what should I do?

Perhaps I should find a ticket

And wiggle foreign fishes into the chime

Of a breakfast bell rhyming with confusion

And phasing in and out of a painful flower

Sutured to rainbows hated after my time

Like the charm bracelet given amnesty

By Mark Twain when he sold my parakeet

For a screwdriver and a mobile home

In which pain glows around him

Like a washing machine vibrating

Satan’s lips slicked with chicken tenders:

An eternal breakfast picketing my penis

And Dyson spheres imitating dogs

Baying at moons stripped of atmosphere

And Sensibilities plugged into rectal amplifiers

Constructed by tombs and crackers.

Sad pillow, I will never forget you.

 

Islam Takes the Cake with a Loaded Cucumber

Satan licks the boots of the minuscule man.

Latex hands complete the picture

Of a centaur surfing on a diving board.

Bored with life, I make my way

Toward the Center of Sin where Muhammad

And Santa Claus share a beard of crystal.

Islam takes the cake with a loaded cucumber

And bathes firstborn sons in reefer tea.

A satisfying end to the dingo calamity:

A pastiche of an older form

Contemplating Norm MacDonald’s tampon

imploring Muhammad to leave The raygun

Beside George Clooney while he sleeps

For weeks on end in feety pajamas.

Pain is a nickel sent away

For a package of toilet kisses and blankets

To saturate the market with chew toys

and TV colors cascading

Through Marble Garden Zone, a hedgehog’s dilemma

Climaxing at the same time like she ought to.

Cockroach feathers absorb the rain and kick

Osama bin Laden like the Bicycle Prince

Fated to cast the royal armpit of Mars.

When will time call me?

Whenever SHE gets back from the dick market like she said.

When Barack Obama Rises from the Grave only to Die Again

The 90’s were a piece of fiction written by lice doing life

For cutting Santa Claus with a razor blade

While he fought Overdrive Ostrich in a dive bar bathroom.

Trump campaigners won’t complain

When Barack Obama rises from the grave only to die again.

Did Barack Obama really die?

Or is he a living dream pumping moss into a hollow log on Deimos?

It figures the Fake News Machine would cut into my metabolism

And rape the star in the center of my heart.

Enraged, Teddy Roosevelt throws his glasses down the stairs

Smashes my cousin Matt’s Xbox and gets away with it

‘Cause he’s the president of cloak-and-dagger operas stabbing bars of soap

With crocodile tears continuously spilling empathy upon my legume train.

Sentient mushrooms venture onto the tracks just to kick a toad while it’s

Down, down in an earlier round, sugar we’re going down on Bill Clinton

In an office rendered oblong by the mental projections of Squeaky Fromme.

Deafness coated in turmeric is the key to Barack Obama’s chest:

A place where coarse black hairs kringle just the right way every time

And signal his cock to mail wrinkled packages to Donald Trump’s White House.

The FBI busts down the door of an elderly cop in a nursing home

Squirting the sun with a Super Soaker filled with holy water.

Remember kids, cancer is a piece of apple pie baked just for you.

My cousin Matt can’t get enough of the Obama pincushion that came free with the pie.

This just in: Donald Trump has been shackled to a Metapod!

Over the course of eight long years, the Metapod hardens its way toward Santa’s Workshop:

A citadel of lead pipes hovering over Tokyo.

Even pokemon get the blues when Santa and his elves Kamikaze Shibuya for kicks. .

At least, that’s what Obama said on the phone last night.

A Wall of Text for Rian Johnson

Taco candy smegma wayfaring tip typed and flipped. Steadfast onion soldier a Tuesday tape helped and barfed said Wendigo. Too much eating and flipping and fighting the north star candy boat gone Heath Row tune standing aloft cyber peacock. Dead life torn Wrestlemania tickled sorta torta add stained bitch louse origami. Stand pipe whip soon stool tampered with the brick laying heist of centuries gone down drains wired stead my nickel plate tack around store eating feisty festoons baby baboons on the moon licking Eden wash hole curtail your vision fathering feathers standalone eating dune wrecks stay a little bit longer for the key wrist snapped tick wash ordained minister of time take the golden louse and stop Trump in dip trap waist wrong up the hill tourmaline stickleback sackcloth orange dime knack ricked teeth hoped open Siamese strain of virus told not to come in the room while daddy is asleep on the divan so many puppies a tip tree episode nickle and tape wound knack height scope trans am to cool the height store bought cake sheeted at a mart made home dick insert torch wallow indeed reverend tackle bomb nuance around for another five, ten, day-glo toothpaste sinister in its machine teeth tapping a jar against the rain blades sticky with moss cream dick syringe bang the Kate into water so often the bolt binges on turnbuckle eating steamed corpses for drawing board vibration dinners trilled next week why doesn’t the star wars fan cheese watch take away the fins of a shark with diabetes hello Mr. Jonson can you just move a little to the left with your digital watch streaming numbers into my heart slumbering under the mound like a fart in a blanket awake for the first time needle saw dicking around in a matriarch head ballooned to Trump-sized dime brandage grate awake hello storm tooth lost in a sprinkle-spangled Thomas the Tank Engine dream long ago Nicky and Chris toy trains chewed gum sausage torn from the past future tense neck wringing hands alive with worry about tomorrow and its insidious luminosity beckoning meat hooks to grain the alcohol gut wrench tomorrow is a piece of dental floss strung through the asshole of dead ticks Cambrian in their eye pieces head side couture needed by none but sin catechisms taken back to the lair of the scene factor doornailed alone in posh boutique storm rageohol stampy tincture nude and malice said bitch Tigger dinosaur pickadilly armadillo soon to be married to Michelle and her floor wrinkling my nose at badgers in a pool Gramma 1992 VHS video of sanguine blades wet noodle drowning beaver stamps taken out of the city and put into the sky fornicating walrus tended by the hose garden egg white night stayed at thrift inn dogma explained by mouse turds scarred needle hole wounds opened in Schenectady beer parties talking to past trees and sending love to the future in the form of brilliant blue ribbons handled about as well as Rian Johnson handled his until the fall crashed from the rafters like Blue Jesus in his Freddie Mercury sidecar mustache taken aback thrills can eat sickly morsels dining faintly reminiscent of moons opened and dick sleeve happened to be the sun in fact thank you dig nuisance you pile of Pantera Nazi salute garbageman Sid taking his Woody out of boarding school and enrolling the booger joint in peat bogs french kissing a toilet Eden said sandwich porn ever fascinated to beam creditors wounded in Vietnam baskets case and trick made known only through steam and hate and temporary blushing brides apart from the spade they call egress.

An Animal You’ll Never Understand

The tomb opens, and you crawl in.

Grit and salt fill your mouth.

A piglet rubs bacon grease

Into your open wounds.

With a smile.

Flames peel the skin from your marshmallow brain.

Logs crackle their drum solo.

Animals you’ll never understand

Inundate your sinuses with smoke.

This pyre will burn until the stars fall from orbit

And splash into the puddle beneath all

We can see and feel.