Putin Visits Jurassic Park

By Tyson Bley

In Moscow, on their Facebook there, egg avatars bob up and down
to influence the way they’ll hatch.
Choose your own setting and means: in a greasy tool shed,
your egg’s cartwheels may ensure a benevolent Tzar
would crack open its pocked cyber shell with their
version of a hammer or ax, the version they use there.

In the bottom corner of the screen –
Charles Darwin makes his famous beloved O-face.

A heavyweight champion.
An ululating towel that pwns Broadway.
Are you telling me these fantastic hallucinations
are all rooted in a gristly cyber molecule, in the boring toxin
in the vein of Russia’s Facebook?

Brain damage? Alchemy? Or, closer to home, a small green smiling pea
sitting deep in the inner recesses
of a flabby X-Factor contestant’s bellybutton?

If you call being hit by a flying sock at
Jurassic Park a hallucination, but you’re not really convinced,
you’ll nevertheless not be prepared
for the actual technical explanation –
namely, you’re full of shit. The ‘sock’ was actually the
result of a toilet paper dispenser malfunction in
the gorilla cage at the local zoo. A wet warm gorilla shitslap behind
the head too mundane for you?

How about this: The only remarkable thing any alchemist has ever
come up with? Fucking cardboard. And when you
fuck me [my ethnicity is not determined though], actual turbulence in
the great subsequent chalk-belch
will be pretty visible and distinct and pretty.

Jurassic Park is real? And HIV is real?
And Walkman sterilized countless
men and women by peculiarly altering their gaits? And right
now there’s a group of beautiful young people on a wheelless,
cabriolet restaurant bus somewhere eating food
ethnically indistinct waiters
come by to sprinkle pepper over from offensive-looking pepper mills?
And if you starve fecal matter of the swamp beneath its glaze
depictions of the cloud’s bottom
from which it had unceremoniously fallen
will subtly, beautifully distort?

And there are flying socks?

Just not these kinds of flying socks.

Read Full Post »

Athletic Toddler in Time

By Tyson Bley

If anything, the wrestling costume was made for crying a little.
Cheese – my trainer told me – is not the worst monstrosity,
even with the lolling skull. Sitting there in a huddle, I was
infinitely consoled. It’s the drag marks that expose
our location. I knew that with the receptors in my molars,
I could be remote-controlled by any religion.

But I got my cancer from wearing Nikes,
picked up all my Parkour tips from watching Sesame Street,
and cracked the secret of time travel with the right
arrangement of PVC pipes.

The asteroid is still under construction –
tampon wind chimes
out front on the patio.
And while all else is still unknown to me,
Moses is loving his chimpanzee transplant.

Read Full Post »

WHEN I RISE FROM THE DEAD A NOODLE WILL BE HANGING OUT OF MY MOUTH

By Tyson Bley

unearthed yet: but not so well preserved

lasagna
is
all
a
dream?

hyphenated or broken rubber band, cufflinks for corpse gas
caramel carcass suit

dinosaur loves marijuana, its nipples are a gruesome fact

its nipples’ exposure to flashlight light IS more poetical,
rotates ’em
anti-clockwise

the psychedelic sinks in the earth
beautiful from picking bones clean,
a gramophone inhabiting
each crypt of the toothless

the new street scene – Basquiat, Kinski –
a bumpy linguistic along potato navel cord

the Destroyer hides its hiding place by filling it with stones (brave of you, billionaire of the sinuses
brave
of
you)

false teeth will never fail in their sacred quest

Read Full Post »

Alley Murders. . .

By Tyson Bley

Geraniums partake of the pianist’s flesh, so much they love the little brat. I remember being jealous, hearing it. I’m such a, such a jealous person, you know? It continues to this day, and the cords are noisome. My face is ham. I’m transplanting the ham grimace. Shuffling out of the auditorium, I set out to buy a Rammstein stuffed animal, just to feel better. I stop, because I have to stop, and admire the traffic lights surrounding the sand castles. There’s a lot more to life than this – there’s so much, so much to admire. There’s the shape-retaining function of duct-taped dream messages. And 3D specs are only $2, through which you can see what pests on coke really look like: a cauliflower conglomeration of Wagner. Jaba de Hut was his lover, although he’s nowhere in the picture now.

Back at the apartment my spaced-out girlfriend coos over her new shotgun license. ‘This baby is laced with a pathogen,’ she says. ‘Oscar De La Renta toilet water!’ It smells OK. And I really like it when Sissy boasts this way. It gives her voice a batrachian aspect. Sissy is currently married to the smallpox Juke, whose drum machines – electronic polyps with bloody, rhythmically popping souls – perform best under golden showers, and I become so, so jealous even though no one’s playing them and the sounds are merely points of the compass that lead to the institution’s ends.

I have been told that I will die in a drive-by shooting. That’s OK, but untrue, as Sissy demonstrates by folding the license into a paper shotgun reeking of oldman perfume and aiming it at my chin, squinting. I’ve always wanted to be stupendous; as in, I always wanted to be stupidly hard to shoot with a BB gun. And today I want to feel the infinity-coroner’s extension. It’s not an infinitely long dick. Nothing like that. It’s a tiger. Prodding me. I will be buried in a dinosaur encrusted costume; the only thing inapposite will be my decomposition, which will consist of prairies of shirt hair. That is how, hovering in a corona of dead, pube-shaped alleys, each a possible destination curtailed by boredom or distraction, I will free my murders.

Read Full Post »

Lego Universe

By Tyson Bley

junip’s earthquake languished on the drool lattice
calorie vibes come together are a nut for flies
she was the light phase fluffing
the afternoon’s free thor display

we were all excited, like big mouths
for nipples, the bell’s peanut shell
cracking all around us,
tortured like whooping subway bacteria
under our feet,

and there was this strange sexiness
primping us like tampon dolls
and happiness’s assault disorder
reigned briefly, everything briefly
was quite alright

underground it buzzed chattering
junip’s scoops, hard riot debate
religious ideals turned into
light knitted headmounted muslim
the mood straining hard
instead to get laser-eyed nick cave
and other free stuff in it

freedom a muhammad ali cough
expectoration flying through the sky
light phase indeed, acquitted raccoon
yowling, no disorder’s zipcar spark’s
large devil proton in lego quadrants
or on the braille visor

of a monochrome hippie

Read Full Post »

P.s. aren’t racewalkers the funniest fucking things you’ve ever seen?

By Tyson Bley

I
and it was good
it’s on vimeo
mitt romney starring
as a character in
my little pony
what to do if
so recently weaned

II
and it was good
it’s on a view-master
katy perry starring
as a tapeworm
in stan marsh’s
tubby fingers
unpaid wriggling cancellation
doesn’t help prevent
postal delivery of
baby migrant
holding a bike store
hostage with a bottle
of tabasco in
fedora a different sort
of ambience than seen
in my head

III
and it was good
why we’re friends
instead of dislocated
the thin green trail
mossy t1000 fingernail
stretching in exit’s wake
pierced three spokes
turning instead
of a green ninja
mullet in ninja electricity
hiroshima has thrown out
verbose fiesta, those languishing
brightly loud pregnant implicities
shadows puked out of
polyurethane gobbets
the culture blast
watergate scandal’s transformative
money; the dukes of hazzard’s
bicentennial possum

IV
and it was good
phonebook evolver
it’s in a mom joke
your mom’s escort
newspaper hat zero for
when you want a mom:
consult the phonebook, she’s
right there talking to herself
supporting a reversion
to realize her listing
doing things that
isn’t salad
in a wooly crouch
mom’s fit and whoop
and tears at every lan
party g.i. joe attended
the embarrassment of
michael bay’s car’s
toilet cut from traffic
cone focus, those hoarders
of world-deep keyholes
voyeurism in funnels fascinated
set on racewalkers

V
and it was good
you’re actually free
when wandering in and out
of an elevator
back to the future’s
justin bieber of the
republican party
gathering the blossoms
of your exit from
bj’s wholesale club
completely thrown out
of prison catering
machine’s cold-eye cuddle
room service waiter amputee’s
marvel deal celebration by
abduction by animaniacs
in the grip of wrestling’s
violently stupid notes
snaggletooth arterial
which totally wrong-colored
30 rock’s raison de’être

Read Full Post »

Child Sickness

By Tyson Bley

Drugging an infant was awful.
The disruptive behavior
of the infant was awful.

Nostalgic for my rental car,
I groaned until the nostalgia
was ground to powder on the floor.

Turning over the mousetrap was interesting:
the thing was actually a nanopatch.
Formerly a stealth child-batterer was stuck in it.

Not stealthy enough.
But the stealth child-batterer was actually already rotting in it.
That was back when mousetraps caught such things.

Anyway the nanopatch alleviated the awful behavior,
it caught the screaming, the awfulness.
Which is actually pretty crafty because the disruptive behavior

has a thing for coalitionary killing:
your infant (which you decided to drug)
mobilizes allies in alleys, in throat tunnels,

and together – infant hand in hand with
awful behavior – they wield the force
I wielded to lurch out of my rental car

right into the stomp-path of social services.
Being actually pretty evil, a globe-shaped globemaster,
the infant was, in clinical terms, at the helm of this

car-exploding force:
and after drugging him I enjoyed
the placidity not just in its, but my own behavior,

marveling at the etiquette posters
on the government buildings
and the Harry Potter-themed ceramics in gardens.

Oh, I did a lot of dwelling in shade-sprinkled places.
I never had the guts to contaminate the saliva
in the rattling propaganda

of the birthday boy, on his birthday. The customer’s
rampage through the little store
was nothing if not the disruptive behavior’s fire

in the manifold, in the metal frame exploding
after squeezing it until proven deadly,
bursting into your float and away, slack-faced and content, you float.

Read Full Post »

Wow Wow Wow Wow Wow

By Tyson Bley

Wowed by the sudden loss of relevance
of my werewolf legs, the kind with the knee
kinked backwards, giving you huge loping steps –

slumped, dismally, at the restaurant table and
wowed by the waitress’s sickening abuse of power –
lightly salted: the oil leak I’m forced

and consent to eat, with 80s hair and vibrating
blinking brooch on wingtipped lapel, still very much slumped,
however, here, at the table. Dolorously.

And, yeah … feeling like I’ve been pushed down a spiral staircase,
a strange April fools victim of
the teleporting device landing me smack – some time prior –

in the middle of a karaoke contest: having stood
there with my werewolf legs trying not to stutter
or swallow the pufferfish mic. Ugh.

And that’s part of why I’m so down
now, I guess … and I only thank the teleporting
device that it had the humanity to at least

shoot me through the dried oatmeal ether
into this restaurant, here, where the waitress is
unkind and dragoons patrons into

doing things against their will, but people
who do things against their will willingly
still, in a manner of speaking, consent, no?

Give their consent?
Or am I sounding desperate? Have I managed
to swallow the slightly salted oilslick, though? Wow. That’s wowful.

It’s obvious this waitress has put Occam’s razor
to the standard pop show formula, the product –
i.e. a sudoku-inspired tampon – deriving from the fact,

perhaps, that she’s half Japanese, the code to a cruel
combination padlock around my hairy ankles displaying in asterisks
on the LCD panel embedded in her chest. Which is … wow.

Read Full Post »