O’ Dandelions

Outside Popeye’s, a pimped out Chicken Man held
a black or white? sign with his beak. From the take-out
window popped out Shaniqua with her pricing: “29.99
to feed me olives, 39.99 fo’ carrots, ‘n 149.99 fo’
Hasselhoff’s discarded gum.”

“Home, I’m honey,” announced Bret, placing his coat-
rack on the coat. At bedtime, she brought out her best
pees. When morning arrived, she cracked the kids’ heads
open into the pan, and Bret tightened his favorite tie
against her neck, strangling her.

At the company, they surprise him. They throw confetti ‘n
death certificates for a surprise deathday party. At recess,
he openned his present to find his boss with a Japanese
lollita outfit inside and a ball-gagged staff preparing Super
Soakers. Everyone climaxed then resumed to work.

The boss’s after party started slow with several
unpopped bubble wrap sheets in the fridge, and Martha
Stewart invited guest Daikichi Amano onto the show
where she devoured him and resumed blabbering: “‘1000
earthworms’ [is] an old saying that describes the sensation
inside a rare type of vagina […]. [The] caesar salad
[costume] […] maybe […] originated […] [from] a horny
fisherman who decided to rub fishing bait on his [censored]!
Earthworms are said to swell a [censored] […] but Caesar
Salad Baby […] wanted to be a pie. […] All these beautiful
costumes are […] stuffed inside […] a vagina, being snow-
balled and coiled around […].” The party got bouncing when
the buckets of Crispin Glover’s coffee cup residuals came
in for the chippendales to dip on.

(…) Coat, I’m home,” announced Bret, placing his dead wife
on the coat rack. At pee time, he brought out his best bed.

A Blizzard Walking Down the Isle

The subway train loses its way, finds a ceremony,
and takes a hundred passenger shit.
Flower girls throw ashes between the gazing them.

Wagner’s Here Comes the Bride is not Wagner’s.
Earlier, the organist argued with the groom ov’r
who, Liszt or Chopin, got the most vagina, until
he got two fingers bitten off.
The father carries the bride down like a bass
and throws her back into the sea. A ring pillow
floats alongside disproportionate maid smiles.

The best man cuts an onion slice for his cheek.
Blah, blah, blah.

“I do,” replies Vince. Anne
echoes him. The organist resumes.
Mendelsohn pounds his fist!
Schubert asks, “What? The song again?”
Liszt blows pipe smoke at Schumann who fans
it with his royal flush draw.
The photographer turns blue inflating a wedding
cake from his prop box.
Vince smears the first slice into Anne’s face,
shocking the banquet room.

“Objection!” screams the maid of honor.

The microphone snakes over to the best man,
and bites him full of nerves.
“We are gathered here today to say goodbye
to a great man!”
With a Smith & Wesson, he coats the head table
with his own brain fragments.

Shortly after, the maid of honor pries open his cold fingers
and resumes. Anne, with a bloody face, finds the wash room
with her ex-lover inside and deep throats his member.

Blah, blah, blah.


The bus arrives with twenty pairs of Annes/Vinces.
The bouquet flaps its wings and shits into reaching

Her ring’s stone grows into a concrete chunk.

The Mother & The Potato Guru

The lawnmower grew wings. Heaven’s grass had gotten so long, God went about naked, hidden between the blades.
Back on Earth, a game of hide-and-go-seek was happening between a mother and herself. Upon finding herself, she decided to learn the ways of the storm chaser. She began by chasing her own tail, spawning a twister. Once tired of that, she took a trek up a mountain of potatoes.
At the top was the much sought after Potato Guru. He said to the woman to put a toe on him. “Put a toe on me,” demanded the guru. Potato on him? Indeed, potatoes were certainly on, in, and around him.
Satisfied, the mother returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner for two–herself as a content mistress and herself as a miserable saint.

Shapes, Sizes, Hues

A bird cage ajars into a labyrinth
o’ this-‘r-thats. On, he travels

east/west/northward? Wheels swerve
from indecisiveness(…). Legs
leg t’ward a bread/juice/soap(?) isle–
‘n eyes scan values o’ three twenty
nine/two ninety nine/three sixty six?
While the throat hums, eyes scan
ounces o’ fourteen/twelve/fourteen,
‘n trademarks, logos, spoofs, (…).

His submission is a metastasis
o’ is-nots ‘r could-bes. Back ‘n fro
he gyres, defunct, in a purgatory.