this here is a genuine Mississippi mudslingin' dog

be careful now, that right there is a genuine mississippi mud slingin' dog, and when half the goo-chassis is out, he hops, bucks, and twists, and tosses the offending member right at your feet, an erstwile brown mouse for your how now old house..

a beast rides

the camphor'd es

and a herm hides

in the christmas tree fringes

of the pre-programmed

clear cut.

there is a gnarl,

an enlightened snarl between us,

a truth gap, an oracle, Charles,

so that arguing with you

is like watching you

smoke cigarettes through your nose

with your head stuck up inside

some distant blue

alien aquarium parallelogrammar:
"let us tissue"
"lettuce bowl"

bright lights big city

the medieval chin imp of beau brummel 

just adores

being bathed to live music

on a stage stacked with chicken cages

and now that we vestal virgins

now follow the holy mother

Helen Keller

bunnies in pink sacks

and rock and roll

in painted brick basements

there's a noise

like bananas 

in a chicken cage.

Laocoon!

Laocoon on lead guitar!

I'm not wearing

a painted chicken pelvis, Charles,

when all you're carrying

is a svelt clean hyphen

to ford the forbidden naming

of ultimate conduitry...

suit yourself, Marsha,

but you are still the top half of the es,

and I

the bottom.

bathos is no pedestal

for gnarl, and 

madeness

mad

for all.

On the great balconies of Capri's,

there need never be

any arguing the canon

among the penultimate punctum

and palm,

these indigo pillows

for bent and extruded

grid chess

set to confer.

do you still not recognize

how hot on the heels 

over multiplicative mandalas

my canonlessness

can argoo:

this sentence is all blue pillows

made into chair pads.

the social

is a gnarled balcony

said Edgar Allen Poem.

our goo remains

the essential integument,

though no semicolon,

or neocanon

can separate our gnarls.

We enter

Sparta's blue.

now that you've gone,

I find myself,

taking your side

in every argument with myself.

and though I replace

you,

you are goo,

immovable.

are visible

as an indigestable remainder

at the bottom

of our screens.

Everything gets digested

by the canon.

Now that you are gone,

and its just my hyphen and me,

I realize,

that the empty headed

and architectural es

is just a beautiful white donkey

wearing a black saddle

carrying a roughly hewn rider.

Jesus,

like a painted chicken pelvis

entered old Jerusalem

in search of

bright hound's tooth garments

to lay at the feet

of holy mother

Helen Keller,

and her book

of hells.

as a military sleepwalker,

i smeared my skin

through the great canon

of maps and places,

until at last I arrived

in the city

of Laocoon.

This used to be somebody's

squid costume.

Our goo is the night.

and no one may argue

its fewrtile

canon.

Ernst Haeckel

was here...

and at the end

there was only one;

a last and final

earnest heckler

who called our great canon

furniture

and then called our furniture

syntaxis

and then named our syntaxis

THIZGOO

argue!

pull open the blue tasselled drawers

and drawings,

move the brass teapot around

on the great forehead of gnarl

and call it

flower.

of strings and quarks

and gambots.

The Letter of the Law

is the shaping of the goo.

And the goo

is like a city

of laws nested in rules

nested in laws

and sideburns.

I'm not sure I can do much for you.

An enamel ovum, or period of white noise

has followed you here

from another narrative..

Is there something like a table

you aren't telling me?

I never thought I'd find

the author of all that drunkeness

in a mystic knife.

I would do anything for the canon,

but its blindness

has rendered me 

as wholly other

a holy mother.

I am Brandy Keller.

(another Chivas please..)

Instead of meditation

we eat.

She's military and asleep

of course.

We red everything through our cell phoems.

come

break 

bread

in the 

see

o

pop

chrome

mandala

puncta.

sometimes

I forget about Zarathustra.

Sometimes

I can't find

hellenic killing.

Sometimes

the canon smokes a hyphen

and burns your face off.

Mudslinging is holy!

Mudslinging is holy!

O lungfish!

O broom-tilde!

If the word harlequin does not chase the image harlequin,

surely the ARRGG cannot GOOO...

Poem Written at Dickey's BBQ Pit.

Pray, beginning sleeper, and let your mind dissolve in me as I
Straighten, upright from the overflowing couch:   pray with all

Your euglena-heart in muscle-fountain,

The longing-euglena only-shoe, as the bird in its tuning sorrows
Bides in good falling—gone fraying
The gather-voices, and more the alone ones what

Pray with the soul-training of hecho

Of the lost ax, that the footprints of all

Predators, moving like old-stone, like
Clean leaves, grey and sensitive as willows’,
Will have left their intensified beauty
And alertness around you, when you wake,
And that the blood and waste of them
Will be gone, or not known. Become
All stark soul and balcony beatitudes the ax in the air
Now come, half-faced, to the land wild labrys land discussion

konstcusion

think upon sphinx-divan

dissolve in me

o ax head air euglena shoe

hecho

hecho en masse

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/article/247606

scene unseen in the pearly teeth of an undine undyned

nadja-mazda, hurry

nose of corn

gnosis of mazes

the trimming of the niches

the trimming of the hedges

which held the bronze galls

their stretch-chassis-claw-worts

the throat stones cut from their if-sac's

suckling fact

the origin of the world

will coo if a brusque design

on older beaches

what smooth mythic euglena muscle's

tongue

stood erect

a fountain of encoded arcs beset

what tongue the fraught translation of

Medusa's head as a raft

in which the temporal refugees

have packed themselves

in ivory dissonance

vague orange competitions

of mannequins and quilleriums

this being all feathered

and yet these feathers control a display

rippling 

lifting falling

twisting to show their backs

the loki club

with its green top hat fountain

dances with air

a noodle

is saint Anthony beaten by devils

a coded statue encryped here

a single word

müdel

müdef

müdes

müdex

mullone

it is not average

that anthony's golden nimbus

is the same color

as the wanton demon's face

who carved this jade blanket

for a golden tear drop

[?] go back and drop

it in (high fen)(low sign)

who let medusa's eyes

turn the ocean to stone?

they pier

from virticul

whatour

a brine abstracted

plus (place)

the contradiction

privates

in secrets

hewn by votive fountains

Pensive Frizz

and haunted by this ghostly cat
and haunted (as if in canting it to speak it)
bird gone without suspecting
bird remembering in form
as moth
with window to lantern

every window's form
a languid term
tangled in termination

determination
and haunted by this

go sit or lie
and where the vines touch the ground
describe the jointly arriving lines which feed
the deaf surmounting of the falls

white crocus
its foam white horse neck fondles
and haunted
by this transparent frog body's
palpificating &

pupa zeppelin hand
to lose its skin and spread
its orange lantern roe balloons
across the purple dusk

dusk mirror rose
framed in orange lantern balloon roe
and the roe buck cubed
like an emblem of dear and labyrinthine
antlers holding a transparent cube

an advertisement
for the universal insurance company's
law of the conservation of energy

all these laws
make nature look like paper
and pensive:

o dusk square squa du
o skew duct
oaken dew seam

o swadu
o squask
o quare wadi rama
o husk cue cares
the emmivee cleers
the emu packs whole

swip dev swee
dusk swadoom
sweep-dev swadomm
and doosque

o squat days
o padav
o emka
udim

padam vidim

an aftertaste of hermetic fugu

the meaning of meaning is precisely and ideologically promiscuous, as is genius, and the divine. its wry witlessness will succor no final witnesses, and its mysterious smile is the last thing any of us will see; tragic drama is the goal of the universe, not just one of its effects, or defects. And the ritual entrainment at the heart of this text, though unsound and wanting, is the same as every birth or death, its dearth both girth and depth, less as...

THIS IS A FOOGOO ALERT!

But this isn't a cautionarry tale atoll!

It's a FUGU ALERT!

and there is a formula which describes it:

Foo = the furious capacity for combinations as encoded as autorefractive mythologem = dragon = fool.

Goo = materiality's absolute denouement as the ground of combination, or loss = paradise lost = combination faile, or combination succeed to the detriment

of other combinatory follishnessies.

This is a FUGU alert!

Furious jelly

is a foot.

so here i go:

i bask and basilisque

in the wild fury,

and as i open my wings, it opens

its nictitating paddle arrays

replete with illuminated speaker organs.

this was once a furious icon of revolting display.

now it seems as if 

the ceramic copula

has been subsumed by its own

crazed surface?

I'll be the savior of objects.

all matter is poetry,

all circumstance

sacred drama.

get the fuck off my stank-neck,

daddio GOMBDURR.

even the fairest flame

must partake

in the red and oval cattle

which fill the flayed flute

of Marcy's ass.

GREY TOWERS OPEN FIRE!

THIS IS A FOOGOO ALERT!

this is a dove wing made of boiling nacred foo-putti

potential sprinting

along the fitness corridowse

in the great and yellow green temporal esophagus

the lightcone as fate=calculand

got a shovel?

there's a road of solid gold 

just beneathe the mud.

got a cigarette?

we just got robbed

of our growing habits.

mysticism always consists

of replacing the other with a cosmic eid, but what if

all the other is other and the eid is marching,

Caesar vidied a seizure,

and I am a seizure,

searching for an eye

in the mist.

at the center of the most excellent

and final poem of hermetics

was the history

of blue furniture.

you won't find fugu

in a pit of boiling dabloons..

I beg to differ.

All is fugu.

and foogoo is moot,

and mute, though its tyrant scream

is absolute,

and lutening

with lightening.

We'vre abolished all colour themes here on planet Earth, but welcome

to Marcy's ass.

and so at 3 pm everyday, the foogoo bell would sound,

and the great cake arch sprout luminous blue putti recliners...

what is the square root of blind masseur clones

divided the round root of umbrella times granny over baby white caps?

bamboo growing beside the beach.

let it be known dear, that the TRUFUGU

is a wry witlessness giving birth eternally

to its own witnesses (jigega, nude deskinding a sereclase)

and helping friends

down off the battlefield

back to the bar

now.

once again.

look dreeply onto my eids,

for the oval of red cattle

descends into the pupil

via a shadow

of absex.

only in passing

do we mention

the conquering sprout

of the informe',

but it isn't coffee.

See, Eid myself id become

a somatic prouncinull,

an incipient hiss,

a gladness

smeared with dinarrliums.

inside

my head exploded

outside

my great armor roams

like a cooing

and heroic

gasm asque.

This is what the universe looks like on string-theory.

and so, as sweet spring approaches the twin blank obsidian pages of the window book, its surface is overcome by the identity of the semiotic playing.

plainsong opens the debate with boredom,

but wabi-sabi counters

with both wild and abject hermeneusis

combined by hoary-gomi.

measuring orangutang tongue takes time,

but it doesn't give much

unless you consider

the fair celadon perrukes

of torrential termagents

as the approach

the herodial mass

to reveal their amulets

of negative ressentiment.

i mow this goddamn fugu down to size!

the great vehicle

is always followed by blue furniture

and neither ideology nor aesthesis

can ever changue-langue that.l.

history

like a murky drift i peer from

attempting to surmize

the weird path

of foogoo

she found the invisible staircase.

too bad it never existed.

i didn't turn into a pillar of salt

when i looked back at fugu

but the dream god bacchus

poised before a sea of blue wine

my ultimate divan of dream.

what is the red oval?

the red oval is a rogue gibletext.

a skizzard

which welcomes

fugu

back into its own body.

a weirdo's jelly

basilisking in the sun

on lips of pale grey fire

you will live for ten thousand years

with a black plum

hovering in a cube of frozen black snow

made of iron cricket tongue legs..

Vulcan was young and handsome then,

so make note of these VULGARD

BENORDS.

I'm about to slow down into runic fnords before I caliban the junction with watered silk pillow book buildings.

I roux

the dei.

that my currtune school

stretched out its helmet hand 

in a wish for bliss..

for every time i desired and grabbed

i got some of its bliss and some of its hiss

anubiseblis

we make green stucco with absinthe

at night

i coum

like a bat

like a gnat

my transmission

occurs.

foogoo

is the genius

of witlessness

as form

this is my mantra

this is my gold

hegel

as a ceramic shoe

for bees

in a flowerless

world

Is that Don Quixote'?

no

just the two hands of sanchmo panzer

and the great jellyroll revue.

die cast metel.

fugu alert: let these fields drift forever, groaning and growing, gorling, and gorillapedia.

I would like to take this moment to thank all miniature statuary who live inside the etherneal pluroma of wild fugu..

KRAKEN HO!

No I don't want to hear another Pinocchio joke!

It's time the world knew.

Weird fetishes will all converge

on blue velvet furniture

and calm library daze at homme.

fugu

has trapped us in blue velvet.

reality

conforms

to weird massage

but the crane is blind

and dances

forever.

O FREWL GAOWDWINE!

this is a FOOGOO ALERT!