The layman’s albatross is a downy seabird,
spitting into the mouth of a frog, eating bees,
wearing the testicles of a weasel, and making
a melodramatic shape against the singed
limelight. Something’s a little off today
like a corn pone in Galilee. Exhalated belchlike
sounds. I want his marshmallow… to have slacks. Mind
is a hangover, frigid, mellow, ardent, tedious,
smell of baked walnuts tangled in my hair.
Popping clowns. Cocksure “uplifters”
look back with a naughty expression.
Singed monkeys – their hot contention:
smooth hateful creation. Mind urine
on the smalls of our backs… but in Tennessee
no one will know the difference. I think
I just burped pure propaganda
at its dumbest. Art history, bleak lentils,
hybriddy duet with sound: a gold bear gets
the best of the magically auratic inherently
dialectical sign of freedom. To help address
this basic weirdness, you smell like a mushroom.
Dayglo pink spraypaint for the soul. Buttery gasp.
Passion’s sap. The syntax of the heart drips
peach-flavored hard candy, curling around
uncoiled melody’s thrown colored powders.
Gonna get me a zither, aww yeah. A man is itching
a fuzzy tree in Artauldian space. That is the ice cream
of the animal. A wastebasket, regularly $80, will be $50.
Convocation of tiny jewel-like frogs, aether is money,
free delivery of fashionable fake insight, revealing
the marbling of muscle. Flamingos, bison, beetles,
guppies, warthogs. There’s a lot of slop in the system.
Rage grows into little baobobs: the “concept” of baobobs.
The concept of bunnies and the concept of pellets.
Tedium. Onus. Steel girders. Ox and raisin. Field of
flawers in this habitual crooning. Spit me on it, creepy
panting. “I’m not that quizzical.” Pail of tense money…
smells of honeydew. Sweetly acrid abbatoir tang.
You’re not talking to me, you’re talking
to my limbic system, “multitasking” with my
private parts. Groaning like a vibrating cellphone,
panic attacks. monolithic tree mushroom stem squid, The Little
Grass Is Sleeping, bad gums sue over no toothpaste, robots
position giant box over Dr. Generosity’s great society.
Pseudonym pinches off a lettrist bagel as fake orgasm,
the booby is spouting grapefruit juice, a black hole hums
with retro immediacy. I’m gonna teach you prima donnas
how to think with your cocks. Lard torque of the hangnail mind,
frigid, normal, or ardent. One part tedium, one part monotony!
If I were Jesus, would you heart a little devil?
Made in chaos, rococo femur, flexed in lox.
Barbed reason falls out my aching skivvies,
histrionic interference of morning a kind of scrunchy
on the tattered ponytail of life. Come inside the city to have
long days at a desk. Just normal plurivalence. Triangulated
relationship to her velvet coat. Whipped up. Must be
whipped up.No known substitute for Zyklon C, art-anon, dark time
face, oh, such irk in my small rack. Decorative antipodal
rodent, oil all over the place, gushing, glooping, barfing out:
bloum bloum bloum, smoggy beautiful day, repellent smell
of honeydew, blop blop, and then a cartoon candy smell, smell of
time, tiger shoes, relief. Reading the time, editing clunkers,
warm skull. Forgot my phone. How’s by you? ummm. Sudden. Yellow.
Logjam. People’s eyelids… moisturizing…their eyes.
Nightmares eat wild oats, salted in warm irony, stuckly
wretched briny lumps. That sweet conflict. Alarm will sound
the mordant prettifers in a gristly field
of throbbing signifiers. Meantime I eat the asparagus
from whatever end I fucking want, my budding starlet,
this is about women’s lib, not women’s libido.
Volumes of coconuts, depressed healthy users of heroin,
Birdcage inside birdcage inside birdcage. Secret taupe:
lord of toasts – wiggling like a wife on an extended statue.
Rushing to lilt over the blown flakes, a chainsaw artist
living in San Fernando Valley bungles the delectable
miasma. They’re playing “Cherry Bomb” on the radio again,
and the reindeer are pissed off at this murkily crisp gash
of boxy formations. Spit me on it, creepy panting.
Night wings the ergot further, gleaming… glittering…
the sudsy interior of this habitual crooning.
One thought on “The Jew’s Ear Juice”
Have you seen Scatman Crothers tell
off that salesmen in that one Jack Nicholson movie with Bruce Dern?