The Jew’s Ear Juice

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

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