So here’s the Exquisite Corpse from the Issue 28 Launch Party. Gird your loins, as they say.
Is this reserved for me?
Oh I don’t know I can’t think of anyone.
But if I could it would be cyborg Jerry Orbach.
With his scratchy voice and questionable taste in wives, he was totally the fuck up I needed
To wax my mother’s moustache. Some things happen for a reason
And the way the dog kept vigorously hugging my leg reminded me
Of the way a child is too needy for too many years and there’s
No legal way to get rid of it.
Which left only illegal means: eat it, toss it, or hide it in another body.
Option three would be the messiest, but the most effective at hiding the smell.
I knew seven cups of coffee was a bad idea.
I don’t want to wear cologne,
I just want to make you moan.
Against the trees, with their lost
Gnarled up spirits impertinently, incontrovertibly flatulent
Where is the head of garlic?
The robots are on the march.
They demand our motherboards.
I just discovered black garlic.
I cook the meat until it pops.
Pop goes the weasel
Pop goes my dreams
The sound hurts my ears.
-- October 6, 2011