there's nothing wrong, it has dreams

there’s nothing wrong with this forest
it has levels
flat trees
layers of indiscriminate background
we climb ladders
you follow lines
he smell some kind a shit
they stumble on exploited fat black hog
little ashy hoglets suckin on her titties


kill the hog, kill the
hog kill the hog
hog kill
I kill hog


there’s nothing wrong with this barn
it has levels
us perches outside on broken branches
peeping through shadowed spaces
of yellowed tiles and rust shaped shingles
having to watch blue amazonian cat goddess
swing from the rafters, with him
on her back, boner popped


humping fluff tufts
fluffin hump tuffs
tuff humpin
I break fluffin branch 


there’s nothing wrong with this bed
it has blankets
tying together lovers who cling
to each other, shouting this
bed has levels
from across the room
we find this big baby, he dark and
handsome with orange recorder penis
she say how we play this
push me in for smell
intrudes wispy thin moustache
watered up from wispiest tips of
neon spectrum trolls hair
popped up from baby’s white whicker
fireplace crib
takes a whiff
that smells
worse than phyllis 


diller
phyllis whiffer
dillis
whiffin
phyller
I whiff phyllis diller

eraserhead

lie loves light
love lain against
father Henry, born
lost. sinner lost.


face full fear
fully freed eye
heaven wholed out
white. tunneled white.


hand held head
held hard against
concrete paper, worn
off. rubbed off


brushing brains of
pompous poufing rubber
off. swiftly offed,
misted, sprayed, sloughed


cut through black.
alls taken back.
everything is fine.


head erased.

love is air

inside a shanty skull, squatting
atop a twist-tie turtleneck,
choke crunching sticks with the
fish dry-baked out,
circulating sewage in and out
in an endless shit loop,


mud-sliding a moldy
light tunnel, tinker-toy
distraction walls preaching
soapbox sadist to the
masochistic crowds inside
a body bag, one
suffocates, but sometimes, two
brings air.

love is feeble

an old lady, mother
of two dead dogs, long
past grief made gardens,
soil shifted shawls for
blooms. brightness blinded off
the violence of her vigorous
troweling. 


pink glove shaded squint,
a momentary peak through parted
blinds, the scene sublime as bisect
life wriggles in the dirt, and
soft sirens echo the sorrow of a
separated soul.

love is a masonic templar twist ruining the ending of an otherwise pretty good book

pace frenetic, like:
slurp triggered soup bombs and
two men dressed as nuns with guns,
missile plans planted in magnolia fields,
fake pianists with real moustaches and toupees woven from
christ’s beard eating cork flavored candy procured from
oriental robotic cows birthing calves with knockout calves and
knockers filling tight red dresses slit hip-high,
train-top rendezvous through trans-
dimensional tunnels, an unlikely duo
made trio with possible double cross-
stitching threaded into mystery;
sweetest of what-ifs. mystery
turned inane with a groaner on top;
nature’s hooded order, an
obvious conspiracy of jealous
biology, as ordinary as the lifts
on your oz glittered heal clickers. 

love is poison

“every substance is poisonous
every substance is not poisonous
all that differs is the dose.”
Paracelsus (1493-1541)

we made a plaster cast of
his swollen face
crayola impressions of
her black bulging veins
papier-mâchéd a basket for
his blood tributaried retch
molded lumpy ceramic mugs for
her final flux
hung the hemlock scented vials around
our necks and cooed, 
“it’s so romantic and Shakespearean.”

love is cheese

stringy melted cheese
the kind you dream about
the kind you can’t have
the kind that makes you constipated
the kind that makes you bleed inside
it comes in fake forms
rubber yellow tofu blocks
a message to all you cheese eaters:
you don’t know what you fucking have.
someday, i’ll eat so much cheese,
it will kill me.