Friday, March 30, 2012

NOW ENTERING MANUAL BREATHING MODE


The night's work was over.
Most of the workers sensed the real life.
One could not embrace the intention
of the heroes. Next day, no scooter.

So the whole craze about the artist
went over his head, since he fell asleep
half way through the predictable plot.
Then came the planes and swiffers.

Danny DeVito waited in the baggage claim
with a sign that said "DeVito".
He was clinging firmly to his coke zero.
It only showed in a single frame.

"I'll be right back" everyone
in the world said to the space station.
"I mean, who doesn't want to be velvety-
rich!" said the station master's buttered nuts.

That seemed weird, the way she drowned
before that movie began. Anti-anti-climactic.
This is how revolutions are fomented. One
pint of blood on a corn muffin at a time.

Now the internet is turning young girls into living
conditions, staring doe-eyed at the waving crop
of yellow bonanzas, wielding butterfly bows, cupie
lips on porcelain denoted by black hail.

One gave his last muffin to a young girl
and she played flight of the bumblebee
with a butter knife crusted in his precious nuts.
The red balloons aka her muffin will not be televised.

Hey you! you got white stuff in your hair!
Is this product placement? Too much white product?
Was it what you expected? How do you get that white
stuff off your tongue?

"I'll be right back," his wind rattled.
The construction site had a bright banner
that made it an exiting construction site!
That eight foot ball of filling blood was answered

with a meteor, with a fire safety manager,
with a portable in-ear war thermometer,
with grease to prevent the dance floor
from rising into a cavern of its scars.

The pod, when they blew it open, was filled
with the most beautiful sounds. Sounds of
rejected sinks. Laughter of retards writing
all of Mozart then playing with C-4 and a Colt

45 Malt Liquor and a 45-rpm of Mozart "handling"
himself in a tricky situation involving blacks. The blacks
don't care about tongues. They're just tongues.
You trade one in at the clinic for a real-life Barbie

then you bow her until she breaks out
in Keep the Home Fires Burning.
Love at eleven compromised the plaster
looking like striations of Acai juice or invented blood.

The blood squeezed out of a Plymouth.
C-4 requires a binder to work. Something to bind it
to work. The Cars That Ate Paris released in the US
as the cars that eat people. But ya gotta drive.

In space no revolution is possible without corn.
In space no young girl can be sexualized until she's a doll.
In space no amount of blood can fill any ball.
In space no one can hear you bathe your eyes.

No one ever hears Mr. Bubble coming until someone
loses an eye.  The teacher with the ruler with the metal edge
bought us one nut each then left us to get home on our own.
The ending ran backwards before the opening credits.

It blew. Hitchcock walked.