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Extract of Celestial Chimp

December 19, 2012

Here are two chapters of Celestial Chimp by Tyson Bley (NAMELY 34 and 35) which Tyson has been cool/kind enough to let us put on ZizekPress. Celestial Chimp is a rather long and somewhat wide poem that you can follow at



The noose has crashed in 3-stage clot.

The negative collects in a headstink of mindfulness. Skeletal and tinny, television breaths reassemble in a valve’s sexy gargle.


A difficult vegetable is usually segregated from fun. Such a vegetable is usually a clamshell. He or she quietly hosts some kind of outbreak – layers of Velociraptor wart descend the emphysemic silence.


An outbreak of pomegranate. The body of Christ in an alternate universe riddled yellow-toothed, a coin-operated doodle. Lactation ejecting the mole through an orbital scissoring. Neuroscience’s hazy burgling of faulty borders at the angle of an alien’s toe.


As we all know, stuffed gum resurrects from gum. 

A bouquet of gum resurrects from gum. Layers interacting in a stuffed resurrected bouquet of gum in brain-damage time-lapse.

Something missing fills up with noise, from such an exhaustively harvested resurrection.


I’m longing for the more casual and relaxed circuitry of the perpetual nuke, haunted upload twisting with brain-fat and low-hanging Knorr – whose ribs I will sort of climb into bed with.

We lean casually against the bubbling stove.


The suckers of an amnesiac hinge on a difficult vegetable, determining the amount and variety of her past and future.

A grave’s ejaculations create the same ambiance as my Camry’s backward puffs. Their screams’ toxicity producing an echo of positrons.


Like a bevy of corrupt cops, a bevy of corrupt thumbscrews tore down Bubble Boy’s lobe. He is now an otherworldly tripod which eats and farts atrophy.

Like a werewolf, the heel of an amputee leaps from the rabbit hole.


The hug of an emphesymic house spider triggers diffusion. Such zero connectivity is not segregated from fun.

A cyst receives revelations in 3 stages of clot. Disguised with laser. Brain-fusing between disaffecting tensions.

Having learned that nothing is tactile to Occam’s razor, alien invaders masturbate a diabetic’s lunch.


You don’t want to be an unintelligible object. You don’t want to be an unintelligible object positioned somewhere in the room while Sauron is watching the sitcom: his vigorous heartbeats all tend to bang on unintelligible objects.

Behind Audrey II’s lip, there’s a warmth. Anatomical vase water ghosts in the craw of sand.

Acid reduced to pellets can’t be licked out. They don’t work. They can’t be soaked in liquor. Can’t be stuffed with negative.

This syndrome is stuffed with subjective feelings’ meta presence.


I twist into the shape of a humanoid dog.

For a second, my chinos look like a portrait of chinos. Fake leaves blow around our junk’s junkyard. Zero connectivity copies its arms from a plant. Xenomorphic snoutskin levels its cold vector at its own reflection in the astronaut’s visor from a base of non-biodegradable dickcheese.

In our cunts, two brains shall dodder before the contraction’s snoring methane.


With his low-hanging whiskers hovering above an energy drink, the hybrid coroner gives the best golden showers.

A corpse lies prone on the yellow brick road. A ghost commits its spirit to the bosom of the Coca-Cola evening shade, little bits of dirt trapped in its eye shadows’ outer wax.




Omission occurs very transparently. A bulging magnetism hugs e.g. the memory of my appendix.

There is such a thing as a humane herpe. The omission of a humane herpe occurs with a beveled magnetism.


When I yank the ripcord left in the wound by the doctor after my appendectomy, all the wonder and drama of a hamburger’s nocturnal emissions are reversed-engineered from a river’s burning discomfort.

‘Geology’ and ‘context’ overshadow the stretched asshole with tiered goatse.


Walmart smarms itself against another Biblical infestation, a veritable superhero fighting God’s crimes with his thyroid bulge.

I grab another handful of dry frog.


Instead of hair, she flicks paranormal lint over her shoulder. It sounds like Glockenspiel. Also when she blinks.


I want my disease to be a wandering, rubbed-off elephant instead of a double-sided adhesive stuntman.

My pimp once wore his leather clown cyborg hairstyle subepithelially.

Complaining later that it lacked any hidden features. He wanted the whole hairstyle not to be seen.

His next hairstyle looked like a zombie’s elbow obfuscating his mouth. The next was filled with patterns so dense, it looked like a cliff. The next hairstyle my pimp had kept absently tugging at my pimp’s head. The next hairstyle was so symmetric, it created a low ominous droning.


I know that, at this point, it’s a bit late to tell you this but: there is a version of the song ‘Creep’ that doesn’t contain the word ‘very’.

A hardcore pornographer cannot mimic softcore dengue. Something other than LEGO is responsible for the Crypt Keeper’s skin condition.

Despite its general pissed-off gestalt, Karma has thus far not nuked my household pests.

The daily goings-on of my virus are conducive to the shit crust around its jaws. If it alleviates the burning in my virus’ lips, who said you can’t fight fire with shit?

Shit in a plastic bag burning on your doorstep is an obfuscated bomb.


You’re lying in bed, on your side. You partner lies behind you. Now, do you think those were peanuts that just hit you behind the head?

Those were in fact nunchucks. Your lover goes to bed leaving courtesy behind. Her nocturnal discharges emerge from the afterlife in the form of bleeps.

But you: a courtesy hand in front of your mouth leaves tire profiles in your scrambled eggs.


The patient became so unreasonable during one of the sessions as to remind the psychologist of a bear in a tutu.

Inkblot as redoable thistle, unreal afterbirth as bat soap.

Its dripping has no ass. Upper lip upends giant kite.


The inkblot gaped from an oilcan.

The bear had a beach ball on its head.


In the garbage chute, we learned that I had been a ‘difficult birth,’ due to my unevenness.

Due to my erect penis and my gaping spherical oil spill, I looked like an oilcan, and had to be removed with a clamp, blindly.

Dirt melodramatically sucked onto my mother’s folded hidden ogre like an annoying stuntman’s cliff-dive nosebleed.




Tyson Bley walks dogs for a living. It is also his hobby, about which he likes to write. Writing is also his hobby. It is his hobby to write about his hobby. He is the author of ‘Drive-Thru Zoo’ and ‘Normal Service Will Resume Shortly,’ both entertaining books about dog walking. Several other books on this topic have also been published by him. He likes to write less formally, and more hobbyistically, about walking dogs at his blog,

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