The Medusa Jar // Tyson Bley
Frost tears into the bedroom.
The resistance point partway feels dead.
Something creeps along the carpet.
The carpet heals, wound up
sabertoothed, gimmicky –
but looking around corners is still scary.
The butthole is doom.
Ambient cursed marinade
hanging from the mouth cavity does not
The hard side of Jesus-milk.
Dirt lies on top of the phantom isotope.
I’m locked up telepathically and cauliflowering
and it stretches the skin at the back of my mind,
a brace; it causes one to twerk so eerily,
mouth-breathing like rolling heads;
reality is maybe quieter.
The jar of Medusa has scuff marks on it
from housing a false memory.
Comical creaking of the unconscious inhabiting a forklift or the skeleton
of a troglodyte falling asleep in a meadow, stoned,
or a bar chart of the skeleton’s legs, unshaven.
Furthermore, it is alienating or at least fucking
bewildering when a cake or even a piece of cake
pops open and there’s no stripper inside or it’s
too early to know yet if there’s one