Tyson Bley – 3 poems



I don’t want to die
before I get to hell

one soul-detail comes off
in the last centimeter
of travel

it’s an implement of voodoo –
the gnome always
leaving the mirror
at night, stalking the corridors

normal temperature in the
mirror is
quickly achieved

such temperature is
a nexus one can only reach
when the firecracker
behind the mirror
providing both light
and heat and texture gets lost
in height

otherwise forming a yellow fire on
the mirror’s lake; like the
creature at the bottom of the lake
might be family of the dust mite
puking acid on a sandcastle

temporarily, opposing industrial forces
in the bolts that hold the mirror
to the wall have the thinnest content,
making the mirror great for ruin porn

what I sometimes see in
other people, on the other hand,
funnels my gallstones

stopping again when a hand
is softly put upon them

I catch myself cleaning my nose
in the mirror with
my front ‘feet’

am I being inverted?

bending and crawling
to convey the meaning of
this, likewise evidenced,
on this planet, by other
users of the inverse

applying this otherworldly space
until it’s too widespread,
moves too fast, looks long
and desperate: a mechanical
cock on a realistic
stick figure running
up and down a train’s
stick figure cock on
which stands an unrealistic

a sock

on second glance a hot maid
vacuuming the sock full of suss
on a flying saucer

her right arm
is too far out during her cleaning
so cool air
can’t reach
her shoulder

her alien captors
weigh her vagina’s head

had the head’s inner wheel
been at rest
things on the ship
would’ve ceased to
make sense



see it in the shutters, with a bill gray
from catching the least moonrise
old, thrumming in Parkinson’s glade
with a bit of zoology escaping to
fill bras’ extra bit of space
her noise’s influence on its bazaar
a mineral growing on the handle
Houdini’s leash baked, an Oreo cramped
by the tumor watered
muzzle time and it would start
dry-humping the double helix
erecting the ultimate sexy Frankenpinup on the wall
smoking cigars adjacent to the pajamaed shark
Spider-Man still trying to counteract
the fizzing power-can left at JFK
he’s a bit bouncy over harsh slunks
humanity fuels the papaya in me while
an era’s nightsweat bakes
on the fender of the meat truck
giddily yumming in a ditch
this is the dark ventriloquy finally awakening
in Google’s larynx a new sensation nods
peace crabbed Tupac skinny
for it was the teddy who was capped



there’s nothing wrong with
an Ephemerol baby training
its mental ice-pick on Mickey Mouse

– watching him go ball-shaped,
fractures in his black drywall

spitting and slingshotting –

any amount of decay tucked around
hot beer-vacating nano-cannons
at the frequency of a broken Santa lamp
and a hoarder’s psychedelic candle

there’s nothing wrong with tearing your sheets
between your legs in front of a specific part of dinosaur
the noisy wart not scary on something like a Kardashian
trying to build their own porno “chair scene”

imprinted on our ears e.g. the demonstrably
nasty tone of the yard sale rectum

a toggle for easier operation



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/


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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