Saturday, June 25, 2011

SO WHERE EXACTLY DOES MY ASS GO?

Enamored with the exit wound
the geometrical shape that adorned my room
Cheers to the painkiller, a fluffy minion hardwired to
the grille, psychically imparted by the exterminator
Foam scalp masturbation – wax of the spinal cord
dripping so long on hooks; one detail of the proton-pack omitted
a sort of follicle unplugged
Just an eggshell that used to be part
of the greater nausea, swimming around like
bewitched smurf spores
The blue barbeque's lair, enzymes like a fashion
to the tiny doomed aureola of charcoal
In spasmodic cellophane stacking packets of selective amnesia
that shoot lasers into the void
while crinkling like a nosebleed
On my perm's pulp adventure – an encounter with a
juggernaut which happened to be the salacious byproduct of
a rabbit. Dangling out of the poltergeist:
a cell-like endoscopic image of a hairspray canister
Afforded a bit of free time to scratch, so good, so goooooo-
an invaluable opportunity for the Ghostbusters
to stare into my gills. They'll see the crepe paper of
a tongue amid a terrible seizure, in sleep agonizing over
the exact location of the entry wound

--Tyson Bley walks dogs, bakes cake, and works as a nuclear physicist for a living. He writes mainly about these experiences. Find him at http://soapstain.blogspot.com/.

2 comments:

Marie J. Burns said...

I just finished reading this book "Wetlands" and well this poem sort of reminds me of the novel. Insanely descriptive that not even a meth head could touch this. I love the "dirtiness" in this piece. Cool shit.

Tyson Bley said...

thanks, i still have to read that book