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banana leg // by tyson bley

January 30, 2013

Bruce Lee is incredibly handsome:

heroic calves, bouncy bosom etc.


Me, I quickly dumped my whole body’s visage.


The aftermath:

a silver lining trickling down like snot



via a Cryptozoic guardian angel’s


Painted amphibian at the flashpoint: 

Gatorade as slightly wider sea foam


as a very noisy Original Human’s

podcast: that opera of staplers’ sandwich fabric

that matted Chariots of Fire’s babbling

as one blows up wool into  

ketchup houndstooth


Emerging from the Big Bang as 

if from the scaffolds of a whale’s nose job

spanning its dust

straight from the soulful beam-splitter

wriggling below the unsettled moss

of a burn victim


Of course towns eventually formed. Then

dead conformity wearable as implants,

vicarious servos in porta potties

like raw stocking stuffers

blended with smurf cotton

at the flashpoint;

heavens of eaten radio braap half

decayed in Hot Pocket half-spin


Supermarket effigies on suicide watch

that will only make you accelerate

the mallet; laying haircuts of awkward

spines on doorsteps, papier mache

bangs become dead like

meathooks –


I go home and it’s the 90s. Video arcades

endear themselves by encroaching on a cellular

level as quickly as the past is destroyed

as other things are born

between the frictions of immune system

and canned plague until 

bananas prematurely have legs

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