Tyson Bley – 4 poems



I really love the light on this hamburger. It had followed the dirty directions of the Yeti’s mons. The naval would unfold during rest, whereas before its personality was rather slight. Why turn one’s pet’s jizz’s causation into a study? Such transmissions are terribly single-celled. The tungsten nurse getting jiggy with holes in the ground. Off those lights, the moth is sluggish, the Dalek is pimped out with prefab Crazy-Armor, and my circus-skinned big head needs a transplant. Hoe en masse. Hoe the pitch black compounds that wrap the slippery gnarl like the mosaics that give Disney its fake-looking sores. Sombre dinosaur, I challenge your vague claspers. Office stationery are an organism used in arthritic porn. That discolor upon being forgotten. My affinity for chewing my pencil. My pencil’s affinity for probing my froth. See below for what could make the contraption: a) Jesus lizard across one’s eyeball grooves, b) loathe ping pong so much as to fall completely silent mid-backhand. Over time the time machine has retained its shelf-life and pizazz. I told the formaldehyde that its kitsch sack was busy taking my soul and I told the shit-smeared underpants caught on the left wing of my time machine that it was a perfect accessory for my burial. It was so beautiful because it was so stationary on my time’s gale, a Pac-Man blob’s gait matching the surroundings of its terrarium.



After a while, the nostrils of the hominid waiting
by the phone fall asleep. His tongue finds the
cognitive scroll wheel on his palate. Something
in him begins to find this pleasant.
The boogers suspended from the ceiling of
THIS planetarium hum. Waiting turns the hominid
into smog. Smog clippings or shavings flash around in
the smog. The mental disorder is funny because it’s so long.
Like bile, or indeed heavy rain. The digits missing
behind these eyes pogo. The hologram excretes
5 minds. Following the fright I had on discovering
the outside world’s depth, I heard, saw, and felt
only on the surface. THAT baby was me. I go
outside and frisk my garden. I don’t stop until
all the plants have receded. People in built up areas
provide a more realistic image of themselves than
Tupac projecting through a towel.



Like mind abandoning meat,
Brundlefly’s crimes affected the geometric.
A cannibal for intimacy, he needed
gross bits and pieces. Some bizarre fetish, perhaps?
Actually, his first taste of mayonnaise wasn’t
on meat but in meat. Not his own vomit,
rather the psychedelic pus of all human parts
put together. Pain snail-footing it along in its
shoe, all that lubricated light melting around
the shoe’s black windows.
On which disco carpet you really couldn’t
tell the shoe apart from an ambulance,
an ashtray, or, in analog, one of Brundlefly’s computer’s
sentence structures, crawling, in glaucus, deep-sea
transit, a tunnel-reinventing field trip reinventing
tunnels around every object in the
disgusting bachelor’s apartment … making it strange.
A fly suddenly goes on auto-pilot (a truly funny thing).
Driven by plain curiosity, a plant might leapfrog
off the windowsill; crushing a car below.
A small dose of sunscreen waxes psychiatric
on tan, knobbly scalp. In bed, one fat, gator clawful
of crayons messily accentuates a lover’s contentment/



Sweet Hitler only had one nut.
An armpit had to have been removed gently from the testicle.
But is this an ideal flaw? I would let Steve Buscemi
cluster our masturbatorium with his eyes, yes.
But the shrine may still not work! You may experience
the loud suction of cheese. Let your nipple
stare out from the thyroidal eyelid, bleached. Listen,
if you care to take a peek, each death is still there.
The Sun is on a CD. Technologically, every pig’s hemorrhoid is a
pulpit-on-a-chip. Inflatable like the day it was born?
Maybe not. Tasty? Hark, with its weird flow inflammation
laces the corn on your toe fluorescent. At least the washing machine
will no longer keep falling out of a pterodactyl.
This supernatural block wants to mingle electrochemically
with knives and forks! The frenzied wrenching of the ghoul
deposits pulp on the beach. People will think it’s merely rain
sticking to their umbrellas. Unbeknownst to e.g. that child on a bicycle,
his helmet is a panorama.


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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