Tyson Bley – 5 poems

 

WHERE’S WALDO? – ANOTHER MUTATION

I cured this tree by tying its blind spots together.
The sun in the back demonstrated how glowsticks eat their young.
Treadling noodles, the new ballet. The new
anonymous game show contender. Head like failed basketball seed,
decapitated – lifting it over its own lip is a pain.
They can’t, for instance, be emailed until they’ve germinated.
But it’s like quantifying a woolly mammoth. Namely,
it’s a mess. What used to be a flexible croissant contraception.
Waldo on a blind date gawking at his crotch’s oatmeal magic,
craving intervention from a lobster. The restaurant incredibly
few, and he incredibly many.

  

TARZAN’S LOOSE COVERALLS

Although a selfishly bipedal human, a fish is now in the way of my foot.
It feels loose, but fruity, like a carrot toggled in cinnamon.
This headache should be and in fact is sitting cartoonishly
in the middle. Its monkey giggles aren’t explained. A sort of secret.
For I am Tarzan, an old junkie churning phlegm with his jaw,
kept awake by its clicks and nervously flourishing a pencil torch
into the dark recesses of the jungle. These days, I wear coveralls,
daisy cluster sideburns and maintaining a diet that breaks my haircut,
really fucks it up, softens but also cramps sentience’s sexy garbage bag,
tightens its garter belt in the refrigerator.  Diesel tenderizes
my cereal blue. Barf’s weak Smurf valence. The squished bug
behind my ear; because our friendship was starting to be sickening.

  

AN ORDINARY SUBURBAN MORNING

I want a foot rub with
the electric chair’s pretty smog.
How about you, baby? You wanna see a
cross-section of my stump?

Cotton’s gentleness on space-time.
One’s home as a small area beneath the sky
crammed with deranged urban simulacra –
there’s a tiny necropolis in the bathtub,
full of salts that really get under your skin…

Pipes twisted horrifically.
Like a model citizen, bringing your car to a halt
at the Tesla traffic bagel. 

So much mud is thrown up the rear of the triangle,
a fragment of landscape,

an arcade totally dehydrated.
Jar Jar Binks’ morning wood finding a home
as a sparking, crackling glitch swirling
at the bottom of a can.

  

THE PEANUTS THAT GROW ON MARS

a microbe struggling on the pale blue LED lump
such is life,

one man’s suffering is another
mouse’s gums fitted with a hundred
electrical outlets  

&

always [man and mouse both] still easily leading to violence –

as the kindly astronaut lifts and shows us what
lives underneath the soft martian plaque: LOOK HERE
“all peanuts at one point or another switch souls,
all baptized in headphones, bum bum” –
that’s why they’re bald; and in this weather, heart attack windswept

“my actual shit’s jabbering with
Burger King chin soil”; you can’t really
appreciate how I’m digging this 

ritualistic ice cream scars,
Escher’s ominous roller coaster designs,
they enjoy merely a secondary beauty

but

you’ll be many fingers forever

not with the hideous, infected
makeup of large feet suicide-wielding an ax at
the local gym,

odorous; though very nice pollutants form
their own crown of butterflies

  

THE VEGETABLE CORE

the fruitfly’s spinal cord ends in chunky scrotum crust.
like a common buzzer’s radius pushing outward in
an explosion of dust. We are loud. Headhunters sidetracked
by moons, dangerously barbeque-prone. If you could
see a PET scan of our tastebuds, you’d see radioactive
pixels stacked into really cool afros, infinitely high and wide.
                    Stop talking in the movies. Its footprints are
                    Odd but otherwise the angel of death is normal.
                    We use his/her footprints as graves. They sprout
                    Hair. We shave them. The empty bucket by the
                    Priest’s leg has dead eyes. After 5 mins the bucket
                    Is full of coarse black hair. Why does he stalk spirits
                    Around the graveyard with a can of sealant in his pocket?
sewers are also a component of the Force. Jedis hate veggies
and hate peeling their membranes. To us headhunters, the
vegetable Core is a little ‘off-center.’ The truth is pointless.

  

Tyson Bley walks dogs for a living. He writes mainly about these experiences. He is the author of Normal Service Will Resume Shortly. He can be located at: http://soapstain.blogspot.com/

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About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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2 Responses to Tyson Bley – 5 poems

  1. RC Miller says:

    You never fail to disappoint Tyson. “My actual shit’s jabbering with/ Burger King chin soil” gives me sensational treatment. Pleased to see you published here.

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