Everybody holds it weirdly, as if it’s just a goldfish that fights fingers, and I’m hoping I’m really Charles Bronson the chemistry narcissist at the beautiful moment crocodile skin fades to blue prehistoric glans, when the light in his eyes, like sex offender atoms at the unusual feel of gold titty, slowly begins to bug out and lovingly rake leaves on the iPhone extruding dirty from a mound of internet meat, livestreaming the numerical cancers of dystopia from an early 1800s spacecraft. Attached to the neon-green prosthetic pixel, robots begin to regret marijuana, potato denim sleepwalks a goat and the hottest breeze is salty, too. Browse it here – a human head. Usurp certain pizza strains’ moving parts with the penile atheism of pro wrestling. To its tear ducts (the human head’s), dust just looks like the next piss nexus, ultraviolet cinema sprung from an old restraining order – real dust particles look nude like stem cells, and 7 Up the aborted infinity sac the DIY way to building the world’s next crypto prison bitch golem-style in slow motion anime, a Spiderman, a devil, an old man’s soul in a young girl’s body, pretending to wait at the party without the geek introversion and the red and blue snake of a laser pointer beginning to take shape.
Tyson Bley is the author of Vital Signs and Drive-Thru Zoo, both from Gobbet Press.
At the edge of a great snowfield Louie Otesanek grew different shapes and shades. His palms are wide and dark and mingled with the highest sky. See more of his work here.