Analog Anal Log
Choosing a religion based on grandma’s sinew cake, hiccupped goop presses down on pixel pylons and hazmat knee-jerks of nasal spray’s mind-control sludge. The smokable material of a clown costume’s lifelong blubbering endoscopy is borderline wolf lake. Is chunks of partially pussy-eaten bone marrow puppeting wang fishnet tails, as in tiny-black-cock-mongering with a Hogwarts algorithm and some intravenous screwdriver stabbing at plastic. So a person washes the dishes in order to control space. Hella gay. The deathbed will still thrive as a caravan of desperate uncircumcised meats, stinking embarrassedly. The tormented soaker. A full infographic of an anxious, different nigga moonshine-frozen. The moon’s lipstick mechanics on the cusp of cumrag choral, making itself vulnerable. Hellboy, a real pizza boy holding a real pizza by hand, faded. A series of pop-up dominos embodying the dead-sense tusk. Bitch’s ennui stares back right through the pizza’s goblin holes, elements of text message scraped off her eyes, disgusted. Ashamed, a dusted butthole with a proper motivation for anarchy. Satan advises the butthole in a lonely fax machine voice to go analog. A frightened, even terrified, anal log resets the system. From chugging holocaust carnivals to adopting that repulsed, shitting-it-out prance. Some skinny golf suit cooks up a phone booth on the sill of its lap where like 3-D unicorn cancer, masturbation is unreflected in small dirty windows, romanticized where the sun don’t shine.
Empathy atrophies from neglect. But the Self expands,
a lizard network impregnated with unwashed hydras
as seen in the plaque tableau of a toothpaste ad, and no
less uncanny than the self-buggery of hate porn’s
shrieking animatronic Styrofoam doppelgängers.
Masked by the field’s migrant palpability,
gravity’s fumbling steam entrenches itself, with its own
arousal’s retreat or advance – not knowing where is north
or south, earth or sky – into buoyant cryptographic milk,
as if sitting on an array of freshly lobbed panties.
There is no up or down, heaven or hell.
Earth is a nightmare. We eat from its buffet
of grisly plumbing. The unspoiled take part in
weird things, too; subtracting for nauseous,
unhygienic, glandular deluges towering
close to and throttling a burn site’s personal space
with Freddy Kruegerian kitsch.
Gravity has begun to defiantly shovel,
spurting dust like the shadows of stale turds
catching fire in stop motion. Despite its outrage,
the steam can merely dabble in what’s left
of the field’s chicken wire surface, i.e. an egg
superimposed upon by a sunken dinosaur head’s
smooch. A carcass incarnate murdered again,
and again, its deafness then treated to the
deep-voiced laughter of cityscape cartilage
bordering cozily on any field.
Tyson Bley’s latest collection, Drive Thru Zoo, is published by Schism2 press. He blogs at soapstain