YOU SHIT FREAKY SHIT
I’ve always been unhappy about my gym wig promoting
the vague psychiatric meatball underneath.
But my thoughts are willing to assemble an asylum from ozone nails;
I am grateful to the mutant wheelchairs, for the general
setting up of a peaceful, delightful alternate reality in which the
synapses of a gorilla may forfeit their hideous bed-smell.
A boxing glove on a spring haunts on a whim. More importantly,
it attaches to everything. It can be traced back to a larger
diversity of fish green chaos. Pee-colored mattresses ensuing
from abrupt, violent delays in the metropolis, seamless odd-shaped
blood splatter swirling weirdly in graves. When the superhero
insect-fucks the thug, the latter accepts that the former is not
removable – siphoning mauve cancer from ubiquitous pores.
You shit freaky shit while munching on the finger of doom.
You shit freaky shit while staring into the hypno-shower curtain.
HAL was evil. He was also a sock puppet. I am going
to try and explain why he was evil. As a rule, sock puppets
are evil to begin with; but take a closer look at
what happened toward the end of the movie. Upon
being handled, the nest in HAL’s mind altered,
became excited like gross floss, wriggling and hardening
into skin wound tightly around the handler’s hand.
A swarm of dairy tubes, wet and yellow and busy.
As long as the soul remains unused, its rubber prostheses
may find themselves entangled in airy uncertainty.
And then you become evil.
Because I watched the movie and because I want
to keep my mind healthy and my bowels regular,
I am the only one of my friends who’s into yoga.
Because none of my friends have seen the movie.
Speaking of being ‘regular’: weird shit happens in my
yoga class, and it’s perhaps our master’s fault,
who claims to be so regular as to be holy.
“Normally when beings take a dump,” he told the class,
“flies come staggering in through the stink-haze.
But when I take a dump, birds leak in through
the still, unruffled air.” To prove his point, the yoga master
had yesterday tricked a tree into standing on his mat. It stood
where he had stood, and in fact still was standing. It
looked awkward – and no birds came and perched in
its branches. It stood on buried gas. Roots coiling around
a dead baby troll. Lifting and sagging one inch every minute,
temperamental. A mere composition of weak
nervous tremors was all it was, but still.
Our epileptic crypto-scarecrow is pretty disturbing.
The most morbid part of the session, usually,
is when the local superhero who goes by the (very apt)
moniker Aqua-Chicken, crosses his legs on his mat
and rainbows complexly stain his nutsack.
I am very afraid of germs at our yoga class. There are
four porn actors and one scientist in my class. I make
a point of being surrounded by them at all times. I’ve put my mat
right next to the scientist’s mat. While countless germs incur
serious injuries in a single porn video, not as many
bloat bloody green as in the Large Hadron Collider.
Beasts of the small world: I admit I am jealous of your evil.
It must be a blast. You must find it as fun as party blower blood transfusions.
KARDASHIAN YARD SALE
there’s nothing wrong with
an Ephemerol baby training
its mental ice-pick on Mickey Mouse
– watching him go ball-shaped,
fractures in his black drywall
spitting and slingshotting –
any amount of decay tucked around
hot beer-vacating nano-cannons
at the frequency of a broken Santa lamp
and a hoarder’s psychedelic candle
there’s nothing wrong with tearing your sheets
between your legs in front of a specific part of dinosaur
the noisy wart not scary on something like a Kardashian
trying to build their own porno “chair scene”
imprinted on our ears e.g. the demonstrably
nasty tone of the yard sale rectum
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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/