:::

also...

:::

Without the Vitamins to Hurry it Up

:::

Without the Coughing

Mnemnomacles

French Fried burial posts
yoink then further twists
of your mammary appendages.

These days so much light
your gammas triangulate
to noose ends, shoe lace

doovelhoffer brought a 20
to spread cheese with, high-class
M.F.er wants a medal

and a bath of soapy pickles
to bring to the funeral.

Here’s bread and wax to gouge
a head with, oozy thought cork.

Flood

:::

Derelict 2.1

Much of the cheer is relative
in the freezer course, cruising
near the afterburner.
So if your
looking for the long hallway
you should bundle up. Deep
space is so quick with the drop
you might imagine a squirrel
peep-peeping around the pod
bay entrance, that or something
slithery. Either way you can be
sure something has eyes on
it.
This piñata
you’re de-segmenting your ship
for is full of little clippers
cheeping and making momma smile.

Derelict 2.2

Such bounty and still no coil. The hoses
are blurry in a pile, intestine code

pre-wrapped like Christmas to the bow.

I’m prepared to give a planetoid
over for our survival, that and some cream
wafers. But that is all.

Nervous congestion. The sealing
sphincter.

Rheumatoid-ocerous. Room it old. A room
filled with thinking, about forgotten giving.
One commercial of society bound
with phone wire.
I’m not getting a signal.

The mast is shy of its antennae
so the messages are coiling in the hall.

Derelict 2.3

Stuffing and bread inside all this steel.
And arms, tubes like arms embracing
sloth. Blood vessels keep tabs on use.
If only one blood cell came to market
it would shrivel recognizing, no being
genetically predisposed to recognize
its own parallax of de function, it would
consume itself, withdrawing into the
mother ship with multiplex and aquatic
precision. but here, in the mine, in my
own crepuscularity, I co on, frozen, in
dark space, I go on, waiting for rain,
for smiling sweaty faces to set me
up with a couch of love to sleep on.

Dereliction 3.1

Wiper blade eyelids
and congestive expulsars

I wave like a race fan
from the duct work

from the conduction sink
which moderates

your blue shapes, shades
and crenulations

wink-wink, I can fail-fail
with the wet drowse

on the sill, the incoming
water slithers into

tracks, and rubber viscera
like spaceship tears.

Derelict 1.2

Near the inferno everyone gossips
And sips from the coronary tube.

A mist of dots emanates
Effluvial fashions. On an imported
Box of steak, the tell-tale bloom
Opens a blood letter, the insurgent
Expiration date masses armies
Of forgotten days.

Some shoes are missing
From the infirmary of broken
Wheel spokes. An etching
Appears to mar a lunar map.
An escapee wrings his hands.

Heart, lay the egg.

Panopticola Demonia

Shill or be surgical. That is the pair
Protruding from the rocks near your
Insignia, just down the lobe
From childhood or, as the textbooks say,
The end. If you transcend into phony
You get a stump of the one true
Like an evil eye in your forehead.
They shave a little bone around it,
And tattoo a map of ligaments and arrows
Pointing the way. If you’re lucky
Your liminal pucker gets tweezed right
Off, shellacked, and replaced
With a camera which can receive the data
Remissions that bubble all around us.

Meanwhile Octopus Boat

Standing Doorwards

A clicking dip draws the ragged
churl from a drawer to which,
for linkage sake, we are dependant
upon like gravity.

Stunts are cool too but if you
really want stupefaction
consider the clinking craw-wire
your robot uses to, ahem,
seal the deal.

In photo negative like horrors
from the past, a tricky embrace
and alien gestation prewires
my thinking on fear. I’m afraid

of the doorway, the lunch cavity.

LV481 Derelict Signal

Some kind of Blue Mist

I don't care! It's policy. We have to investigate any distress signal.

Getting a reading. Over there!

I've Got a Bad Feelling About This

Flashback: Dark Memory