Soapstain

bake sale

I arrive at the bake sale with my short arms.

A TV’s gas is held in by skin. A spider traipses by

carrying her false ballsack. Suddenly, there are sounds.

Or one sound that contains many others,

synonymous with ambiguous air’s bathroom-roar.

To a facial tic, the bozo bug bite is innate, subverting

every vantage point or slightly lowering its edges,

as if looking through glacial ectoplasm or large

suction marks. Mouthwash stops in tiers, resembling

an inflammation cropping up like a blurring barber pole.

The air, though a completely dead repository, will

now make a side wind: one must sit in its silky

underarm caress – fluffing up like a distasteful smell

at zero gravity. Puke edible peroxide a little in your

mouth and sniff back splinters. The air still absorbs,

with uneven pull. Eyes interlock like a disappearing

crease. It does not feel snuggly. It feels like separation.

On dusty beds sleep forms craters. Vacuums caulk

these craters mildly.

mall a/c

It became more apparent as time went on

that I was not being tickled with a feather duster.

Flagella spawned by the agencies of mall A/C

and leaked decontamination unit jerk-off.

A bird dislocated in the center of the feather duster.

Feather duster prevents full retraction.

Bifurcation of the green prostitute’s

lush third hand cooled spastic.

The junk sub-current trapped by a small sore less naturally

with spinach-like teardrop of alien parasite curdle.

PIPE DREAM

This haemorrhoid is a pipe dream. This haemorrhoid is a pipe dream. The hoary wizard has annoyed the dragon; and bleach has mangled the balloon. The latter is now a stagnant lasagne. Restless saturation jammed the space shuttle, plunged its feet in saccharine gasoline. Footprints beneath its paintwork. The fear of growing one’s pipe inward. Of being disconnected from one’s pipe. Ever been so thirsty you started drinking your own spit? Desolated spazz. Aroma of blowing a flamethrower on rubber bands. I always perceive the lesser welt. Take a life with my crack. Standing there against the wall with the body language of eggshells. Psychosomatic ass itch like a hubcap pottering around under fluorescent lights. That’s how the government wants you to talk dirty. The hemorrhoid gleans the serum figuratively – a monster toppled in a drowning of berries. The fog machine causes a mood; and the mood impales sight. How much more manure is the factory going to Pavlov from these babies? When will the next embarrassing bell hoot?

WAITING BY THE PHONE

After a while, the nostrils of the hominid waiting

by the phone fall asleep. Histongue finds the

cognitive scroll wheel in his palate. Something

in him begins to find this pleasant.

*

The boogers suspended from the ceiling of

this planetarium hum. Waiting turns the hominid

into smog. Smog clippings or shavings flash around in

the smog.

*

The mental disorder is funny because it’s so long.

Like bile, or indeed heavy rain.

The digits missing behind these eyes pogo.

The hologram excretes 5 minds.

BICENTENNIAL MAN

My buzzer is no longer gentle or autumnal.

BBs ruffle interplanetary fur.

In other words my shower head’s whistling is warped;

certain parts of the array’s nipple rattle.

Jets are lopped off at the root. Have you ever

been nitpicked?

*

At the kitchen tile’s core, the fossil is visible.

A saw-toothed humanoid insect protrudes from 3D mist.

Electrodes are lasciviously intent on the movable section of

a disease. Ridges on Chilled Thai taint –

a low-hanging window so marvelous,

familiar materials traced in pages that refer

to other pages. My mask is tangible.

*

Why, I remember asking my robot maid, would the accelerometer

make you prance around like that?

It all started going downhill from there…

From where Bicentennial Man skateboarded

a smidgen of static electricity to death.

Where now a retard dabbles in the colorful husks

of bacteria corpses. Was this just our universe – in

denying its own dearth – being senile?

*

Something in the vents seems pretty eager to intervene.

I smell ammonia on emotionless breath.

Had I, at some point, pissed on the stove? I remember thinking if

a human’s normal distribution points wouldn’t ‘open up’ automatically,

why –

*

why not jiggle them manually?

*

Clumps, switched on, form ‘mood’. These are the atoms

of nuclear families. They may not be volatile.

An atom is merely a head stuffed until glaring.

It lives in supermarkets. In houses. In schools.

Public transport drags them along. A schoolbus quivers past –

desperately holding on to dirt and other particles.

With nostalgia I think of my robot maid:

her hands could get very cold with eagerness.

But when winding down after a long day, she had a

beautifully weak chin.

(Source: soapstain.blogspot.de)

Michael Robbins: In which I shamefacedly ask my fake internet friends for help

MY GARGOYLE

From where it perches on the furniture’s

most vertical parts, I radio-control

my gargoyle’s armpit farts.

It nods unnaturally, tonguing itself

in one deluxe, chin free fugue.

Catatonia is simplicity. Custom magnets

foaming in knots. The prism of

gray matter wrung alkaline.

Asthma lathers the morbid esophagus’s

complex, forked paths manually.

Almost like labia that can preserve or hide

a tricycle. Spitting made beautiful in

the rapture of filaments and in

the ignition of dragon propane.

A plush effigy is burned when railing

against the country’s mainframe computer.

Even our town’s reservoir

wears a feral chicken sweater.

SPACE HOBO

its hair’s laser array since my toy got rabies

stress blowing possibly pointy

lasers any trauma anthropomorphic, eight-legged

stars wheeze too big lipped

PEZ-faced, recycled any cardboard anthropomorphic

as our cars get trampled by wiggly tyrannosaur advertising

jar glowing corpse nursed many-tentacled

missing in the spectrum 2 inches above Hong Kong

a passing cardboard/newspaper augmented capsule:

so now the cosmos reeks of hobo

preserve primate until separated from condom

scissor exorcist, dialed after accidentally

jamming your image in photovoltaic pork