Tyson Bley – prose

 

from Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

 

#17

Like eyes fallen out all wrong after a botched
circumcision. Throwing it out the window
reshapes my chop suey. These scratch marks
behind the tapeworm’s teeth can only be ascribed
to bulimia. Air-dry the Kraken in your
Wellingtons. Your troll’s side profile of sequined
parasite. Life is just not good any more since you
started masturbating with a snugness that is not
the same as nesting dolls. Meat pantomiming
nesting dolls merely warbles, it is so breezy. He’s
wielding a pseudo-stethoscope, therefore is no
match for her perm. Her nunchucks slightly offset
her perm. This cliché is a mind-killer.

Again so listlessly dragging the little boy off
into the vortices of the dentist’s rotisserie. The
chemical process of this cliché is too eager. In
the vortices of free will, there is too much play.
Too much rattle and shuck. Stick a litmus in
your shit and watch it come on in the shadows.
The tapeworm’s teeth come in on the dark,
forward into the on-light.

I am turned on in the shadows, wavering in my
Athlete’s foot’s center of gravity. Be afraid of
the parasite’s sequined aura’s bad posture.
Enough glazing liquefies its beauty. Wish
fulfillment sewn into viscous elk. On my face,
greasepaint sutured. Hey look my torso is
dangling; my scum’s carsick bones become
sentient in my buttcheeks. Turn into wine.

A hidden warp smudges decimals into a restless husk
of perfumed louse hiss. I’ve finally acclimated to the
crocodile. Farted psychic skin irritation on the blind
mole after dark, which went right through the mole
and also irradiated the lump in the underworld tarp.
Polio mounts the swamp with its beautiful acrylic
muscles. They almost look like woolly skull fractures
in coal. They look like the muscles of my bong,
leaving a very long trail of joy behind its tottering
deformity.

Contamination mapped out in an arrangement
of diarrhea-sparkle. Rays snatch on pearlescent
bulbs smuggled out from under the collapse of
lesions. After I’m dead, ‘My horse’ is the thing I
don’t want to be remembered for saying
always, in any situation. Bacterial pleasantries
diffused unholy within the exotic pogo stick.

Slasher films are merely about the corporeal debugged.

Clown disease of dud pasta. A tennis elbow alienating everyone with its
terror-electrodes. I kiss the long pore of psychotherapy and sleepwalk
outta there on slimy feet. Sepsis rattling turns to wine. Spiders lace up
the neurological bucket kicked in the carousel of lingering, shapeless
mirror. Beauty trepanning Rorschach biofilm. Fornication clumped
together in fast food blimp cabin pressure.

Excuse me, sir? Please
leave your antennas by
the door. A praying
mantis sits in fragmenting
introspection, the iguana
jaw of its anus healing the
dildo in elevator wires.
Enamel pivots its perfect
emptiness around my
cat’s sandbox. We flush
the scarecrow out with
scrotal carsick. We enter
the jungle’s soot into a
beauty pageant, shut
down the petri dish’s
inconceivable rocket. The
rat’s gaze’s imminent
awakening, lured out
from under its cap’s visor.

 

#32

     Dog poop propeller, now firing the first mineral. Cremated shark now moved from the eyes of the oblivious with a crane, a bubbly nest losing its refrigerated weight.
     Insect branches enter ice-motion, a radar that reaches a certain altitude parallel with Darwin’s kitsch substrate. Basal ganglia dripping long-balled down the back of my nose.
     The machine’s mental image of branches starving.

     The machine’s mental image is made of trash.
     In the kettle’s distortion, the crust encapsulating this immense void becomes autonomous –  throbs like flies fattened on desert pulp, then swatted with shredded pizza. An emotion sagging with existential dog poop lifts itself up by its chin. Stroking a machine’s visualization of a daisy (with a crane). Antifreeze sharted from Yoda’s septuagenarian eyes inverting the wasteland’s frozen dog-poop weight.

     Yoda’s tears are laced with the kettle’s distortion. After asking the machine to visualize the trash it’s made of, a trash-void drips long-balled down the back of its frozen green capacitor.
     A bubbly nest of kitsch mechanical dog poop encapsulating an existential shriek. The machine’s mental image branching into the clunkiest of oblivions.

     Rain gathers in the upper corners of the Cheeto, its arm/leg ratio branching into sun-damaged aerosol. Its relevant matter expressed as nano-chicken wire forsaken by God.
     The Cheeto’s sexual arousal diffracted along sallow brain tubes – like food trapped in rivulets of extreme white trash afro.

     A tripod is the stodgiest means of induction.
     There seems to be no way around time.

     In its hungry absorption of a snowball, the micro chip squawks mouth-first. My face’s complexion spread windowed picks up snowballs, Cheeto-stained, their heads inside the windows like lupus in stereo. Magnet mist as heavy as tarmac, wet corrosion whispering. With part of time’s cheap glow nasally trapped, the rest traveling across the yard in the dark, with insect weight and zebra thighs and a novelty toy’s death twitch. Time resting its brain-damage in my titanium mitten.
     Which, now, is also Cheeto-stained.

     The dinosaur stops stroking its Cheeto-mottled thigh, but just for a moment: the pause may foreshadow a tacky dance. It looks out from under its window’s peak: for a second the dinosaur’s DNA has sprung a leak.
     A retractable signal, poking from the DNA’s forgotten depths, has told the dinosaur to go fuck itself.
     Jack-o-lantern rot schmoozed dyed by pretty sad suicide dots.

     ‘You suck,’ the signal added, then retracted. The signal remaindered in the dinosaur’s head like a steel peg. Tomb grain fallen back on forgetfulness’s titanium crystal.
     Lovely and detailed, the dinosaur’s outline in the Flintstones’ dreamcatcher remained, after jumping through it. 

     Even the fucking planets are losers. Saturn is spliced with a single building block, 50% primary and 50% hobo LED. The creaky sound of the planet’s ‘charisma,’ consisting of two or more different planetary Bart Simpsons, adult, washed-up, back hair, mouth follicles of mite grain, burp of soda tomb and yellow polymers.

     Waiting for, and relying on, the nourishment of Lisa’s kaleidoscopic O-face.
     The decay of two or more different planetary textiles, and retractable zebras.

     Bulimically waiting for the barf to crawl up her finger, smaller and smaller.
     Waiting for the sun to expand in the heat of the sun, chicken-breasted, a dollop with no substance. Merely a big WHAT IF:
     What if all I had were hypnotic entrails? A time capsule as heavy as a bowling ball engorged with Vegemite and resting its brain damage on my shoulder?
     Like Santa’s mullet deep under water, behaving like a big dress.
     His nipples erect like a stingray’s twin popcorn cancers.

     The Death Star’s smell, fMRI O-face and moon-like neck acne don’t need a neck to replicate our moon. From the microscopic POV of the Romulan sewing machine, ‘avant garde’ is merely an oatmeal chain-reaction. 

     Agnes had highjacked a gregarious rape van, in Guam.  

 

 

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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