Soapstain

The shape hiding amid cuddling clowns
does not exist, only the molecules
worded into agony
The specter of the victim caterpillars up its own skeleton’s ass
Ingredients baking in a hot dinosaur-pile
Sexts toughened by the gang-life of metaphor
Nipples twitching from ingesting the narrative
Watching nachos through that low-res gasoline, baby
Sooooooo much uncomfortable code
As the Marvel goat chews a large placebo made of horseshit,
fangirls breathe in its underground personal space through the cereal-scape
Forks balloon like birds, like blood, in a bizarre pinball aftermath
Dangerous fly-pixels haunt James Franco’s shit-canvas
Skin, metal, me –
An afflicted firefly lounging on digital furniture
The mesmerizing neighborhood curse foreshadowed by NASA’s old psychic slime
White mice that turn everything into triangles grab my ADHD
In the dilapidated dawn, crocodiles poop hard green cookies
I awaken from overdose 
An onboard throat controls the Muppets.
Alien jungles sewn together behind sharp little teeth
with electronic cigarette butts fluff up every jet of fake breath.
Your browser jerk-scrolls its darker side’s dick.
Urban wrestling frayed my exo-dinosaur into its component algae.
The mass of the fast-food thrown at the toilet
corresponds to the mass of 3-D printed Zen.
REM cake-flies jazz up the town’s sleep paralysis.
Surgical bloodstains pack a giant GIF
but aesthetically suffer from the occult glare.
What was merely thought to be Cinderella crying in a dumpster
turned out actually to be the Third Reich forging apps
from exploded urine in a jar. I now have an app for
a void shaped like the Exorcist’s reflective horse.
Woolly needs perpetuate Bitcoins on chaotic pimp paper.
The space photos astronomers like to show us are cries for help. 

Comet-Tailed

Wow, this author writes about life-size trash. 
Some of it comprises the tail of a comet.
Check out the stain’s flattened pearl;
turtle-oil operatically launched by
the clockwork’s orange sock;
body parts covered in the dew
of a surreal multiverse, etc.
Although because of generic murder-acts,
hot polymers crackle at the cores of 
a billion free e-books,
this stem cell impaler is Tron 
all lizard-frontal again,
a radioactive pauper popping 
enemas throughout SimCity
with the decaying cucumbers
of a BMX:
t-shirts underground 
lift in the wind:
a bloodied pickax signals forgiveness 
of the apocalyptic sea 
monster’s gland.
archives-dada:

Anonyme, George Grosz portant le masque de la mort (George Grosz wearing a death mask), 1919-1920, photographie

archives-dada:

Anonyme, George Grosz portant le masque de la mort (George Grosz wearing a death mask), 1919-1920, photographie

(via trashymommarocks)

retrogasm:

I always wanted a love like the Addams’

retrogasm:

I always wanted a love like the Addams’

Rejected Morphsuit Ideas

If you stare into the abyss, you will fuck up the abyss. Here’s a montage of the infection. Brilliant thaw dulls blood. Like the cellophane-like membrane of a cozy fireplace, Satan’s Morphsuit weeps raw magma. Organic gods stroke each others’ orange peel, trippin balls on Viagra. They have about as much fun as aliens visiting earth in rental ozone diapers. Amoebas hear in bland stereo, skin trapped in animated acne. Emphysemic Lego dances to its own farty clicks, sits cross-legged on Mars’s video game moss. At one point, universe-fat becomes the Bigger Picture. On earth, I failed every barbwired polygraph. It was relieving. Digging how chemistry accelerates self-awareness, at parties. Seducing stones out of hiding. Filling a crack in the door with limbs that try to stage a chicken uprising in order to run through the sunset’s Jurassic pancake. The soul’s dark matter now wears Christmas jumpers while its digital muscles mow the lawn, forming a big wound that spills trash from its gross sphere. Dials spaz out, eccentric shitfaced mystery-manure sprout erogenous touch points shaped like hooves. At last, in a fusing of channels rooted in worn-out spandex, the haunted-house echoes of friction are sealed in by the constriction of beauty.