Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Bad Sci-Fi Poetry

[sound of wind blowing]

a dutch hermit of the 17th century wends his way through the low country
stupid and crazy as a rail

he thinks of nothing
but sex with a giant purple snail goddess
her weirdly articulating mouth
gnawing his face off
as he cums

his subsequent abduction
into the saucer
of a god-like alien
where he is repaired

'in a bath of glowing milk'

he dreams that he spends years
in the court of an alien lord

'that tall white horrible thing whose innards peak to one another'

he sleeps
and he mates
with formless purple things
and then with faceless pupil things

and suddenly he's left one day
back at his hovel

as three quivering flesh cubes
connected by purple snail flesh

a spigot hangs from one of his sides
a thing like a plant, an insect's head and a

dripping the alien milk

that milk is what all alien flesh is made from
completely reconfigurable
a sort of rewritable protoctistan pixel

the milk of cellular programmability

Hammer Production.