Dave smells bad of Bret’s sick.
But the package is good and there’s a cereal toy.
So this one don’t much care for that one.
Thinks his genius is some hokey moth fart.
Thinks he’s Bateman raking brains for potpourri.
Rip shy of fuck all to lose. For the big screen version
they’ll get more hands to pull more toes off the elephant’s foot.
Suicide is testing. The studios are wet for this.
The newly-deads wear elasticated waistbands.
They don’t make documentaries like they used to.
Their autopsies replace the lines they forgot.
The clinically obese is good people.
Everyone eats from his diet sheet.
The bones underneath are a fucking embarrassment.
And the fat comes off in your hands.
And there’s always someone looking.
Stephen King killed me in his sleep.
My inner nerd chews wasps
that look the same as other wasps
but aren’t because I’m chewing them.
Andy’s war hole is my kind of coke.
“Rattle, gurgle, clink, tinkle, [fizz].”
These are just words for noises.
They’re what noises look like
when noises can’t look like anything else.
That big black guy on death row in Green Mile is dead.
He used to cry a lot about croaked mice and shit, sucked
tumours out of women’s brains, and was more afraid of the dark
than he was his own death. But then that wasn’t him.
Both of them just looked the same.
A man’s philosophy habit is easy ironed flat.
Only, take the fucker’s head out first.
This guy can blub and bleed for the USA.
Blub and bleed: what sainthood looks like
when it can’t look like anything else.
Gary J. Shipley’s most recent offering, Flavored Apocalypse, is a chapbook of poems written with RC Miller, forthcoming from Strange Cage. His work has appeared or will appear in The Black Herald, Gargoyle, nthposition, SWINE, elimae, > kill author, and others. More details can be found here.