The Device

You know when I lived as a catfish in the Nishnabotna
I would hold my breath as I swam past pipe fixtures
Even if they were just floating by
Lost limbs of the pesticide factory

My whiskers erect
There goes a threaded leg

Gasoline rainbows enshroud a 1912 T-model carcass
Coziest machine hosts a home collection of impaled worms

Catfish love crucifixions
I myself prefer funerals

Sharp dressed skeletons sway
Cinder blocks laced to their shiny black shoes

They say bridges are cliffs of hell
See their soggy faces
I chew their soggy eyes

A dead sex machine fell from one’s coat pocket
Rubber lust stuck in the mud
He always liked to deceive the people he loved

In Observation

The lunar lion sat, perched atop an exclusive hillside bordering a Neptune factory, my twin sister's doppelganger accompanied her. They ate pistachios and gossiped about amino acids.

Her innards spun like a flattening tire. She arrived to the party saddled aback an illiterate pony, escorted by an ebony swan; every time he quacked, it snowed.(One July, a group of children kidnapped him, demanding he chaperon a snowball fight.)They ate oysters and drank cocktails, then retired to the cemetery for an evening of granite and tears.

Impregnated and unaroused, the lunar lion rests in her olivine rocking chair, snorting cookie crumbs; her paper bicycle folds in the translucent rain. She picks up the telephone, though it's deaf, and tries to call me. I'm in the cupboard wearing my Hercules costume, drinking hydrogen peroxide, patronizing tea cups.

At the bottom of the sea there is an obese sea shell whose identity crisis provides her with the ego of a treasure chest. I stashed a love letter in her throat for you. Just ask her to sing.

The skull and flower preside at opposite ends of the table. Supper time. Forks have forged their identities. A vase stands centered. Did your mother pick those flowers? Or is that her skull? Either way, it's awfully thoughtful of her to flaunt her presence.

The cordless rang three times. Jupiter lit up in her eyelids like a dimmer light bulb. Four rings and God sneezes. A cue to end.

God unclenched his ass cheeks and out fell my smile. He didn't wipe. I get scared sometimes and start humming the soundtrack to my father's funeral. It goes... and trickles off into the sounds of gravel rocks and shovel heads.

Boom Boom and gentler melodies resonate inside the cadaverous eternity of your vagina. In your pants, time stands still. We grew old, paused there, escaping time, then the microwaved beeped.

Rubbing one out is more like a sneeze when you can actually get a girl.

Sharp dressed skeletons are climbin in boxes, slain by imagined fame.

What do they climb on? What is there to grab onto?
Nothin man, nothin to grab on these walls but old records. My dad listened to these. Why should I?
I want to hold onto a dick on the wall. Those are good and stable and sturdy. Never failed me yet.

You're tangled in glass again
Still, vain fear keeps you thin

Lustrous glances stimulate my mange
Rings of men see heaven gleam
Warn me when the viewing is over

Oh how you cease to speak
Neck swollen, a dull retreat
Warn me when the coiling is over

Bamboo Shoots The City

Drop a driblet, sip the poise
Grow in molded precipitation
Here, placid wisps mute whispers
Of craving blatant coitus

Feel em grow, tendrils tickling
Waking pains, ticking talks
Conciliation, beats lie in
Strangulation, a fine life

Bow tied arms, skeletal ties
Choke in insulated ambiance
Dear, placid wisps speak whispers
How they ostracize rotten needs

A-Bomb Ate The Law

Prophetic predilection induced by chemical arousal
Seem so precious, the themes of lament
Leech to the passel, make so strange!
Palpitate like missiles, bomb and implode!

Progress to cultural ambivalence, see see!
Intent constructing my shellfish attire
Makes so strange, make so strange!
Dangle dolls, please phone the police