Tom Prime, Three excerpts from Dogs and Sorcerers

The Sorcerer

Digital Bricolage

Daniel Y. Harris 

Three excerpts from Dogs and Sorcerers
Tom Prime

 

Excerpt 1

Glass shards picked out of eyeballs were multiple channels intermixed on a tube TV with untuned rabbit ears—a slack of scrawled on skin. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and chlorine gas sundered lips bushwhacked. Plastic melted onto the wisteria branches of a Dunkeroos ad while genitals were sewn shut. His tongue is a tong. Soundtrack is drowning kittens. An eschaton of K-Mart commercials. Ron Popeil’s Pudding Hair Filler; opprobrious voices resound from a standing pool of Muesli in a bellybutton; likewise erect slices of stodgy basements with sinister bins overtop a news anchor’s forecast.

A spatchcocked Rohypnol kid’s juniper berried body. Mire of putrefying dendrites. And his huffing, the giganticness of his carcinogenic musk hoped to extend a week’s worth of work into a month’s. Pressure weighted porousness. I was skewered. He held my body above his, were opposite poles magnetized. In a skillet of deep-fried scuzz, his glassblower vein-pike.

Excerpt 2

A nest of bees pollinates the flowers of my sniffling hair. The a priori paypig. Veins lick the rivulets of countless cellphones. Lowered into the well of tusks.

No squishy flesh for bones, enamel claimed by the bruxism. The animal is buzzarded, but it has lactating sheets for fingers.

Snuff our inklings, recede into troughs, and beget inches as a leaden clot.

The production hill is a detachable organ transplanted onto the “and” ant-farm; purple polyps and murk-pops findom.

Excerpt 3

Wretched an ozone hole scatter of gamma rays. The water molecules obliterated. An ashy wasteland cloaked in hues of shoe lacquer. Immersed in dizzy lights, the gullets pilled themselves in the hard drive. These hermeneutic homes clout-like and grilled were a lone bee hearted in the gills. Hilly mess of heliotropes. The polemicist gummed up the gall bladder. Grifted by a yet unscabbed perpendicular steak knife slash. Must I reapply the fetid bandages in a Villanelle style? Tailed with the monophonic escape window, sieve of perch carks my proud feet through the wilting thumps. 

Men exhale hoarfrost from elbow-webbed tubs. Corpuscular street of fast-food midden. Huffing freon, glistening breath girdled by clots of infested cells: renegade teeth. The telephone shat in the ski mask, threatened glances; camera is waxing.