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Logbook of a Sociopath // Tyson Bley

January 14, 2014


Logbook Of A Sociopath


[As the Stone Age’s edges fall away,

a happy robot wheezes in the buzzard sunset.

Its outer studs blink like yellow doves, erratic.

Its interior is lacking.

It touches its forehead: the sky is falling.]

WALL-E’s Logbook:

Took a dump, as if for the first time in my life.

It felt so good, working loose my clone.

WALL-E’s Logbook: Took several weeks

to stop banging forehead with hand curled in an ice-cream-holding

claw-fist with old “clone” inserted into claw’s exact inherent

cone-space like an actual ice-cream.

The “ice-cream” itched.

WALL-E’s Logbook: Find it difficult to see the light.

Fuzzy all around. I savor the dark’s strange marks, here and there.

WALL-E’s Logbook: Nauseated, I ease in the wire of light;

the last of it, the last of the light, fucking beautiful.

I lay it into all the dead, into their brains,

threading it into empty homes. Empty clothes. Every stitch curdles.

Often there’s very heavy rain.

WALL-E’s Logbook:

A little coked up. Bruises better now.

Mouthbreathing, I savored your sext.

Happy, I ollied over mummies on makeshift skateboard, killin’ it.

Their coughs could shatter windows, I tell ya!

WALL-E’s Logbook:

Passed a kidney stone. A clang of fear.

But with the weight gone, I feel like a Phoenix, rising.

WALL-E’s Logbook:

The sky is still oppressively attached to my forehead.

I laser it off; all access to the sky

is restricted, now.

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