Skip to content

The Medusa Jar // Tyson Bley

August 20, 2013

—–

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

look right.

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

inside.

Advertisements
One Comment leave one →
  1. November 16, 2013 1:54 am

    パーカー デュオフォールド

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: