cubistpoet

Flash Around the Clock

Spinning white bulbs of electric mojo
filtered through the ghost of Jimmy Stewart's liver
step outside the space-time continuum
and paint a fake Picasso self-portrait
in sound waves about the histories and precognitive visions
of all the dolphins ever to be made into tuna-fish sandwiches.

They sell their own feces in black-market hotel rooms
to constipated chimpanzees in gilded silver cages
who need something to throw at the mothers of inventions.

Frank Zappa cant save the politicians now from choking
on the vomit stains of their straight-jackets
no matter how many M-16 machine gun blues
he busts out on his electric riding lawn mower
cranked to twelve and a half to paint the town
red with a storm of radioactive chewable glass.

There is no end and there is no beginning to the disasters
on Californias sunny beaches of sweat glands
where bikini-clad vampires chew on the wallets
of oil-tycoons spilling their semen into the lungs
of blowfish, beached whales, and baby seals.

Green Peace protests at the neighborhood 7-11
with drops of Slurpee dangling from every chin
and chants of No more Sex on the Beach,
unless you brought enough for the whole class.

Jealous heads spin 560 degrees to oogle
an approaching couple 69-ing on horseback
with John Wayne at the video camera,
yelling censored comments of encouragement.

The sun is melting and the sky is turning cough-syrup green.
I dont know when the world is going to end,
but Im sure that Ill get live updates from CNN.