I arrive at the bake sale with my short arms.
A TV’s gas is held in by skin. A spider traipses by
carrying her false ballsack. Suddenly, there are sounds.
Or one sound that contains many others,
synonymous with ambiguous air’s bathroom-roar.
To a facial tic, the bozo bug bite is innate, subverting
every vantage point or slightly lowering its edges,
as if looking through glacial ectoplasm or large
suction marks. Mouthwash stops in tiers, resembling
an inflammation cropping up like a blurring barber pole.
The air, though a completely dead repository, will
now make a side wind: one must sit in its silky
underarm caress – fluffing up like a distasteful smell
at zero gravity. Puke edible peroxide a little in your
mouth and sniff back splinters. The air still absorbs,
with uneven pull. Eyes interlock like a disappearing
crease. It does not feel snuggly. It feels like separation.
On dusty beds sleep forms craters. Vacuums caulk
these craters mildly.
NURSING HOME BORDELLO
Mortal. Deployed a pile of prayers: Hairy ash the way a monster hallucinates.
We’re the mafia, running around with a horse’s disposable head –
all looking tanned in a hail of thick grandma coffee shop curtain –
glimmering with slick, peeled-off wig. After showering. Suffering.
Afterward: we’re after-suffering. My penis hole’s tightening bag of
chips & its wits’ “wrong-way” tits. The conversation with myself
deteriorates into white vomit. Their nursing home is plotting – acrid
united taste – drugging the United States. Memory lapse takes off your
head. Mail 2 free socks. Free 2 wank into a sock. Sky cracks
hoarded stuffy barbs, crags. Puzzled crossword wood, down – straight
after the next corner: The furniture, wet, in a recurring dream.
Try dry. Bye.
Tyson Bley’s latest collection, Drive Thru Zoo, is published by Schism2 Press. He blogs at soapstain