the pink and grim upholstery upholds its future easy-chair

poetry and art
is like a harrumphy poker game
of pink seahorses
in piano-crown-city tutus

licorice stick DNA elevators
going up their butts
and Mom's kiddies and sluts
carrying their beach towells
to the svelte, wine-finish "kana"

We know this.
In huge pink easy-chairs of
pat-lapidary days
we lay down trails of opaline card-castles
long utopian "ROADTOWNS"
of blue spaghetti gushing
leather teddy-bear sarcophaguses
hovering where the sonic showers
come down out of the booming top-hats
of lace

POETRY AND ART
are conjoined like the

WONDERTWINS
in purple soda powers

little Gleek
my friend
in a tutu of wind
has a parrot like a pirate
made of grape-soda

I like to see anyone smile,
a grasshopper hitches a ride on a shopper
and we follow along with a camera
made of steel and boogers

They make my clothes
inside a bug's shaggy nose
That's how they got here

long Utypical
Uhauls

This is a notice
to let you know
I am a futurist,
an extreme futurist
that right past the stink
of "human"
into the stink
of "nothing left"
and even that
is simply

a fine maroon corduroy suit
which floats
in infinite processing capacity
with interdimensional beings

exploring the insides
of all these taffy boned universes