My Contribution to the Gumby Bible

Children covet their parent's freedom
and parents covet their children's,
and every moment is a cross-section of eternity.
Arbitrary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?
Tired and ripped and gone and wired to absence,
a clean-shaven nightmare is good as a dream,
and isn't dead dirt just a constipation of worms?
And love is just a cancer eating gravity.
Act, live, die, ride up or down, goodbye,
and seven dancing Salomes beneath a cheesy veil,
caressing voluptuous shadows,
though I never told him so,
which were large and ugly, but she liked it,
and you deserve to be lost as well.
The chiropractic monkey queen,
a new hand of cards,
I spent a pleasant weekend, but I digress,
I know a place, fourty miles.
You know how to scream don't you Rick?
Shattered chunks of God
to greet the newborn truth
with a lying lullabye
that drifts across the landscape
without a hint of bitterness.
So how can Jesus shave me?
Shaving the shadow off a moon,
revealed only in destruction,
getting blown away by piercing smiles
which sink like punctured buoys.
Unless the bull is facing west,
he skirts circular electric barbed wire orbits,
a mobile oven that toasts the air
like the tongues that lick windshields in car-washes.
That alibi if you're selling it cheap,
a loan for a lonely girl,
traded for that old borrowed lay
which I would love to rent for a weekend
that can not help but break the frightful silence of snow.
Crack the cosmic egg for a mushroom omelette,
and the opposite of radioactive is radiolazy
on its way to a damp holiday
where there is no parking from nine to five
except to turn on its axis before the revolution.
#1. Ham and eggs with estrogen
#2. Unfocused fungus pugilist pubes.
The unique snowflake misses my tongue,
video scream rattles jagged light,
and photonic slivers invade our eyes
to suck both courage and breath away.
I put my ear down on your needle tracks,
or maybe they are Holstein cows,
and deliver them a bouncing baby cheque.
Spherical coins in fountains of burning hydrogen,
money burning a pocket in your hole,
smoke or drink or put on airs,
which I still can't read cause I'm illiterate.
Angry at the cheese,
the fish danced delicious in my hand,
fishing the air like casting in rivers
for the random heartbeat of chaos, baby.
Get ready for Fall,
don't you wish he was dead
without a helium voice,

so as to appear as a watery reversal

to those who live in the colour quake

in the great extreme, ecstatic duck-blind,

and one who knows me too well.

I sewed it with passion on my underpants.

It melts in your mouth and in your pants.

Be grateful you can breath, walk and fuck

while waiting for the Saviour with an open-fisted slap.

Every morning I wake with a resurrection,

using the body of man to make an angel of mud

but when you leave, wean me slowly.

I've thrown my third sheet to the wind

so I guess I won't write anything.

Permanence prevails in absence

so stop shrinking my dick with your lies.

But I could use a vacation

buried in the banks of Cash Creek

where his voice rings in my chest like a bell

that twists and blends rainbow to gray.

But I want world peace and an atomic dildo,

so there's no need to ask “Who cut the cheese?”

in the sweet proletarian after-life,

on a runway of Blue Mountain sod.

But a good whore always satisfies a little too quickly

then waits for response in twists of hope and fear

with buns twitching and unglued,

to be alone with a Camel filter

but inhibited by division,

or the heart of the liverwurst

that makes Madonna look like a virgin.

Life is like a chocolate coated hand grenade

made from the body and blood of Gumby

that laughs luminously down the stream,

grabs its corner with icicle fingers

when its shot full of shadows,

and we bite the ancestral future donut

with a duel to the death of ten thousand sperms

and gracefully unjustify

what’s for dinner this year.

The sea doesn't scare my ass

which died from a leak of laughing gas ether,

ungrateful in this syrupy generosity thing

that is kind of what we think

of my television on a frosting rooftop.

They run the long, black tongues of their minds

over condoms and the knowledge to use

one of Christian’s tedious problems

until after the volcanic foreplay.

I will deny my erection in the face of constant rejection,

electrifying my ass as grounds for insanity.

Your nakedness hates the way you hide behind your deceptive facade.

Thank you for not damaging my precious complacency,

so high in fiber that we shit pure love

but so similar to my own that I can shut up.

What is the sound of one egg frying

where the dusts of bullets and bones merge in peace?

Would you like to pretend that you’re tired,

unless that is the ultimate aim of recycling.

Oh, how I miss my mother’s rotten cabbage,

which is all I need for my camping trip,

because only dirty women go there.

We ringed a rosy round

being a carbon copy of death,

but are you always so bumpy when people try and draw on you?

A big smacker on the dirty poo poo,

take it home, misplace it in your room

where the other seven minutes are mysterious.

Of my own borders,

until I’ve conquered my fear,

no blankness either. And they,

instead of this mandible wax job.

have to be cleaned for the wind up toy

which springs a leak and then rushes out to catch another,

before you know that the deep dish pizza is

the umbilical rendering of  not being able to move

except to reach inside your eyes

and pull myself up by a rope of eyelashes.

Shuffle hour to the Babylon 7-11,

Superman at the bottom of long deliberations

about money set deep in my chest,

blowing me out of the room to

the Dinosaur Bluesmare.

But the bunnies were restless,

the phosphorescent transsexuals

and a big bottle of baby oil

are the only truly Canadian chewing gum,

who’s been the bitch wife

of “Rosy the Perfected” by Doctor Diatrab,

very much, doggy style with astrological predictability

for the use of dissention in the rank of cheese.

But life must not include electro-shock ham and cheese,

busy helping others for Mayor of Parkdale

across her back, across her face,

from the sharp blades of judgment that

a big bloodshot eye with astigmatic aspirations

had to wash his clothes in iodine

except for one blemish in the void that

doesn't make me as frightened as the thought of

what raped the image of my anger in drag-catastrophe,

because we are all descending into the height

of not the way it happened

under an incredibly boring display of

running out of gas at the drive-in.

But Bob Dylan don't know nothin' bout boxin'

in the middle of the garden salad.

I think, therefore I'm not sure,

without the help of a power screwdriver

eating machine that doesn't taste of Mexico, sand and tequila

till the cowboys come homo

and a lounge lizard in an undersea McDonald's that

falls asleep and misses his stop

sights the target and fires at the fat little

whoopdeedoo nightmare of

of my oblong dyslexia.

It isn't, then it must be blue.

Toronto? I don't think we're in Canada any more.

Dr. Hyram B. Hornswaggle,

from his office filled with dragon-seed

sticks the modem up your ass

and then you fax yourself to a Martian Abicidanian burlesque.

Yes, me too. I wonder if the animal isn't filled

from his most recent sex-change in the

brutal, undying love of hamburger dystrophy,

but the vegetable magnetism leaves a

sheath of Christmas that covers my birthday cake

and melts the unparticular sign

that can make me not pull a raindrop

from my spoonfull of  fat, sunburned rodeo clowns

on my broken TV that cleans your ego’s bowels

with sex-lax so my key punch imagination,

only previously used by a brandy sniffing dog

who danced inside it as I bumped up

my vehement pecadilios

down from their aerial watusi

to a ham sandwich or a piece of rocket slime.

The universe is not ticked

by my backward talking phonograph

though you are silly and maybe just little,

and my pipsqueek animosity compels me

to Jamestown Racetrack, five miles low

where we are lost in the presence.

But then what’s his job?

And because it doesn’t seem that the brakes

are filled with enough Jonestown Kool-Aid

that went unanswered since he’d shacked up with Venus,

rocket fuel took off while she hung on to my

paroximatic hemodorphins

till it got to the St Lawrence

and then danced the watusi in a tu-tu.

It’s more like the stoplight at the corner

of College and Kindergarten

is the funkiest thang you can do with

multitudinous masks 

that plunge like lemmings over the cliff

of your back with a pirate’s hook.

Skip across your discarded containers

of alligator meat and categorize them

at the Io Dining Room, take three tequila enemas,

and handwriting improvement courses.

I still I can’t put my own cancerous carpet lilies very well,

not without meandering with a half-eaten Edsel

and a prawn in the game of oceanic

sedated orange segments of no particular apocalypse in the

Anticlimactic Doodah Band at God’s barn-dance in the

testes of the particular.

Give birth to a souped up and ready

1957 ideal of heaven

that goes home without its jammies on

and discusses more of the mummified turnip

in your climb to the highest toothpaste tube

until acid induced, dyspeptic paraphernalia

of an undying aim amplifies specific intentions

into an exquisitely voluptuous shade.

Now there’s nothing worse than Charlemagne reading

free tattoos for everyone,

except for my body

which will exhume itself in the wake of

a want to be clothed in community.

But the Tibetans have turned death into a theme park

in the Grand Poobah’s castle

that tastes so yummy with man-made mayonnaise.

But her job is handing out free samples of soya-caviar 

that double as laundry detergent,

so why don’t you put some of those

ironed curtain sidekick discoveries to use

by whipped cream, nipple shish kabob

and the man in the moon,

who is showing his age,

but staggers homeward, spitting broken glass and teeth

that you think I need to count,

you discombooberated excuse for a release.

Then we’ll die and find out what happens

on moonbeam injections of “Yes”,

I answered, “But love is more specifically

what that energy does to your will.

Arise from the ashes and sit

suspended between two hallucinatory trees,

by your nose with a pair of rusty forceps,

after gang-raping Little Red Riding Hood

in tangy whatchamacallits

that are studying the mating dance

of the anal swallow at the Gladstone.

At least whenever Nick goes

to the Squeegee Kid’s Barbershop and Sex-Change Clinic,

where the new Banik burger with extra dog

and surgeons with scalpels

on the ends of our nunnery with a hard-on

conjures up the masturbation fantasy

of  counting our wrinkles with a catheter

and expunging the memory that the truth evades, even the most dog-like.

And whenever I see a rapist I get a hard-on

that’s just not as strong as the astrodynamic gardening

of red, understated to the extent that my extension

of pre-teen Madonnas with very large smokes

through a mercury-thermometer-hookahs,

integers, tetrahedrons and all of those

were murdered by the pope

because they were about to give birth to

shit-bricks in my attic

and then fall into ambidextrous escapades

that survive even without a smile,

which is just a frown that’s been tortured

by not quite sanitized proper proportions

of a stark, lifeless mall that stands

like a truncated drawn up document

declaring that all hippopotami

must existentially  meander,

and only offered in their place

the four names of Prince’s little animals

from the flesh of my overlapping cement sandals

that were once worn by erasers

pounded by non-teacher’s pets who were kept after

because oceans are the cheapest of all the glues.

God’s ambidextrous identity crisis

of anal Andy Griffith clones

that Ant Bee is raining monarchs

with crowns of fat three-breasted strippers

at the big Hell Supermarket, where the slogan reads:

“It’s mainly because of the three long and one short”

I pick up the phone just to eavesdrop

on the aspirations of fame and dismemberment

such as were squared to the power

of a breadpudding-headed, doe-eyed, spring-boxed

stream of conch shell’s nests

villified to the conundrum

of whimsical animated stegasaurian playthings

that wriggled like they weren’t on tiara-firma

or even like a blast of heat from a shot of licorice whisky,

or like gymnastic mice round a ring

that wriggle like amputee strippers

on the stages of the cross

that form a Mafia Don Valley expressway to go.

Or is it just the exclamation

that I can’t seem to trans-channel CITY TV anymore?

I only do that on Sundays

because mud cakes for Mesopotamian archaeologists,

big and dressed in smart little two-piece Chanel numbers

with the most darling weekends on a leash,

on a cross that confines them

from the dyspeptic and discrete parenthetic mistreatments

of of a friend of mine who had this amazing ion

that tore through the bastions

and overcame the indignation

about the death of the daytime drama.

Afraid for their privates in the face of razor-blades

are the the words: “Have a Coke and a smile!”

and shut or merely arrive at a vague semblance

of an insignificant steroid on Queen street

that doesn’t always shave me

to a fine, harmoniously underdeveloped peristalsis,

like an upstream salmon sandwich

with a side of bread and water for fourty days

of being always and ever on the lookout

for fresh serials to kill with Godzilla’s testicles,

while he hangs off of the the suction cupped replica

of the sacred bleeding heart.

I’d be ready and willin’ ta rassle with the biggest of ya

if ya’d only do me a favour and participate

in the hazing of freshmen angels

which invade the stomach in a continuous stream

of the current craze of bungee jumping

while smoking something similar to that

in a sidelong touch of cyanide

for a happy suicide which doesn’t holocaust a penny

in the inner sanctum where blue is green,

and well man, the poor appear to be bobbing.

Who carried the trail for the girl from coitus interruptus

on a big plate where circumcisions are a dime

as she pressed her firm hard

up the ladder of the corporate begotten

without any sordid harmonica fodder

that isn’t manned without a name

because the gaseous fertilization

of flatulent shit machines does the system.

Opiates blossom like pubescent Girl Guides

until they die of cockroach over-dosage

without the satanic reign of Honest Ed, Mel Lastman

and the rest of the ark that floats Archie through an arch

that Betty, my mother, didn’t teach me about.

No goddamned approximation of trailer park emancipation

that to a misty melodic ghost of Heaven

absolves itself in a glass of my pompadour.

Then step on the gas like it was a swerve to avoid it

and my car spins out of  its lips so luscious

that my cock remains hard as it deep throats the rust

but unfortunately misses the whole tractor pull festival,

which is the main, for a little while,

without regression or even a post-hypnosis

about tractor wheel filo doe

such so that they were supple and bouncy enough for me

with their web designing butts,

which had dropped a bit

but then anybody else with

half a rancidly reminiscent sewer

of waygull defractories

would disseminate semen wherever.