Hebesphenomegacorona

Hyperbase Splendidness & Experimental Poetry -- All Writings are © Derrick Tyson

 

Everything, a hospital-like atmosphere.
Breathe and breath are not the same,
but Breathe and Breath are. The “e”
is an appendix. A firewall.
My camera’s body is my Body.

As a young boy,
creating clay angels in the rain;
Great Grandmother
preparing coffee inside. The total darkness
of a body does not drift back
to the place to dream. I speak
as if in rememberance
like a bright smear on scarlet-dark color.

The real War is on one’s voice;
One’s ears, machine guns.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 10/03/08 02:06 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Network of Meridians

No intention of making long drives; dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, a pot of coffee, peace of mind starts in the stomach. Failure splits the moon, some places need a little fresh air —

The ugliness of telephoning when in danger, what is so perfect about ridiculousness? The sound of a cuckoo clock, the cawing of misinformation, thunder clapping like church choir hands; hands double-clapping

into rhythm. We’ll stand on the stars, you and we. Your shivering hands, you’re frightened. Haven’t you heard about it yet?

Gigantic and bareback, we’re mystical; fantasiacal. The more you have, the less you will have to lose. To be wise; to be changed by a sentence

like the perishing greens of summer, still wanting to catch the sunset. Do shadows stare? Forgive me for giving you so much trouble. I know not what I do. My heart

beats through finger-tips, as if I were still in love; writing powerfully while in love. I’m the calm and simple type, like a lonely Grandmother who does nothing but sews and sews

and sews, until she becomes so accustomed to it that she sews her fingers together. Coiled rope of life, an icanitage, the Duyvil sniffles of this world. Flesh touched by strangers,

let it go. I can assure you a squealing sequel, laced together by my impassionate remarks. The authentic audience-reaction will be cue‘d.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 10/01/08 01:44 | link | comments (1) |
poetry, thoughts, random, poem

Detonating a land-mine (mind)
by sitting on its winded-lungs

and stepping out
of its looping blasphemy.

Fitting the bulge
into the indulge, unconceptual

conscientious inventions
in the darkroom, on white sheets

with two hours of pleasure.
She stripped for him,

the dance overlapped,
skin peeled like grapefruit sheddings.

To let something go
between sound and mind,

perhaps between
what you had eaten for lunch,

to be inbetween
those odors –
roasted chestnuts, soap nivea

and hot croissants.
O, O, O, what follows?

Were you expecting
something eloquent,

perhaps with an “Alas”?
Okay        O        then cold, then hot,

then Hanging, then standing,
back pressed against the wall,

making it useful. A round-trip
to somewhere—here—back,

you and I’re pleased.
                                       We’/’re.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/29/08 15:37 | link | comments (1) |
poem, poetry

Flame, flame is always a rose is a rose is only death so that your body is an embarrassment on the carved stone face like a glass eyeball slowly cracking.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/28/08 19:30 | link | comments |
poetry, poem, prose poetry

Underappreciation can be located
at the decimal.

Language-killers underestimate
my wings

and how they are always exposed,
immediately followed by a slash.

I want to invent a new temperature,
a special meta over the vowel.

To be absent of Commands
like a bastardly chicken.

Freedom is as dead as Jerry Garcia
but “The Sun is drawn” like my curtains

marching to the beat of the hum;
the shadow behind the curtain moves

when I look away, echoing deathfully
across the midnight hills of Georgia.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/27/08 16:07 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

You, your sisters and I sat outside at Little Five Pizza every noonday.
You loved the guy with tattoo-sleeves who flipped our dough.
I imagined ink sweating out of his arms running into our pizzas.

I saw you staring at the dog that was tied to a chair behind us
while the owner of the dog went inside to order. You told me that you

loved the way the dog kept trying to sniff the pigeons but came up empty –
the chain, too short. You, from Canada, were now in sunburn country,

and I noticed how meaty-red your back had become, as were your sister’s,
while we stood anxiously awaiting for the next band to perform.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/26/08 19:50 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/26/08 19:34 | link | comments |
thoughts, random

I WANT TO PULL AIR

I want to pull air

down,

to thieve an

atmosphere, what

would be left

other than the

sounds of muted

voices, warm

shadows &

fossils, letting

the fricatives

linger. Traces

of sighs, un

-approachable.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/23/08 16:37 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

The bluest blues,
sings Alvin Lee,
cuts him like a life.
I mean, like a knife.
But, could that
really be the bluest?
Envisioning someone
is only a resonance with
-out their
“newness”: What about
the wasps in pots?
Insectology isn’t to blame
here, I am just using it,
or them,
as a metaphor. Newest
news: Bees take over the
house, and then the
hummingbird. Wings wringed
out, like a helicopter going down
into the boiling anger of
an enemy-infested jungle...
spiral, spiral, spiral, Burn.
Let me cook you dinner
even if it’s sloppy. Let’s tug on
the earthworm like a fish
shaking off the hook, like bait;
which side is fe/male?
Take all usage out of your space;
the equivalent of the hesitance
of virgin hands. A sensuous
human is a sweet song, and not
everyone has a center of blazing
leaves.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/18/08 09:23 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Let Go Of Ego Undertow

 


 L   E    t
 E   G  O
 t    O     w

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/10/08 14:57 | link | comments |
poetry, visual poetry, poem

Som Werds Arn’t Mayd T’Be Undrstuud.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/08/08 16:53 | link | comments |

The land is foggy. Silky-lavender horizons.
I am unable to resist the invitations of these interludes.

Mother Nature’s interlude for two for the few who
look beyond the horizon to see the sun fighting the moon for solitude.

I am a rover of these scapes,
and with teeth chewing I suck out the motives to remain.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 09/05/08 19:28 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Dear Poet,
A light bulb has left you.
Seeing as running.
Is running.

Your words
have grown heavier.

Transparency
isn’t the secret.

You have to be prepared
to step on
new floors,
to grow out of nothing,
like flowers, to be lost
between points — not a “shame
on you,” but a shame
on the maps. I see you
behind the curtain, Wizard tongue.

I need someone
to shake the shadows
from the empty house
of my body that speaks,
voices climb to the top
of the roof of the room.

Dear Poet,
I am your unrecognizable son.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/30/08 23:55 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Are
dead
children
more
illuminant
after
their
death?

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/30/08 18:36 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Like a juggler bludgeoning
your wild fingerprints are wayward

destined on poignance of flashy
Nowadays, now, nowhere

Oh my, Snellville in my eyelash - eyeball
Snellville, my personal Thessaly, skylight,

sky wailed formerly at me, these drips
of today, speak to me, I speak to them;

I canvas my tongue with yr conveyance
as if to inform you that physical love

is the absolute zero; a favorable fracture
to report an absense of malformation

like a skull-base, sulk yr way to me
if you must, to mesh the head like

distracted html, what would it take
to pull me from yr knowing, to tolerate

a final memory intentionally, like an
inoperable scamnum, how we’re unable to

correct the curvature, to winch out the tension
of our living sought, living salt, withholding

a timeout, a shatterproof litany - The thermostat
dries, hissed into whorls of s/lumbering

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/28/08 11:47 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Earth
is
a place
           where
you
can hide
           the moon
in your
coca-cola.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/26/08 13:57 | link | comments (1) |
poem, poetry

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/14/08 17:43 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

THE BOY WITH BRACES

The boy with braces in his mouth handed
a dvd to his mother saying how it's the best
film...ever. I watched him walk around, heard
him say that he was just kidding with her.
He picked up another dvd but kept it in his hands,
saying that that particular dvd is, without question,
the best one...ever. He walked away,
his mother put the dvd back onto the shelf
whispering something to her
-self as he walked around her saying
space ... space, what is space?

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/10/08 02:16 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

"Old" speaks,

drinking younger tonic.

Nip/suck

out contemplative citrus

looseleafly.

Assumingly neophyte,

turns around

hearing a stench

ringing the doorbell.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/02/08 00:44 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

Picked Into A Knife's Figure

Touch your hairy underarm, white deodorant
in the bristles, like snowshoes, to animise
anything, into ducts, tacitly sawed. While in the park
I saw ducks sleeping, their heads tucked into their bodies,
appearing headless. To animise. To animise animals,
dead skunks in hovels pulled out, sprayed with perfume.
Uncalloused barefeet walk over hot concrete, tip-toeing.
To be as silver-footed as Thetis, overly-apologetic.
Melinda used to joke that I was flipping her off
when I’d push up my glasses with my middle finger.
Who wants to be an earth-mover, a tiny platelet for
every shade and color? Projecting ex-sweettarts on
screens for certain family members after questioning why
you don’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend. Behind the times,
underminded, snapped like a rat-trap; questioning the lip-
ring on sister’s ex-boyfriend. “Do you kiss him with that thing
on his lip?” And it’s no wonder I’m conservative-minded
around them, picked into a knife’s figure.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/02/08 00:41 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Manipulations outgrow themselves;
into folly they stake the heart of what is compiled.

A hologram is sliced out.

To hearken blank patterns;
their sprout, their spray, like murder-splatter,
landing back into a thereafter-soup,
stamping themselves sourly.

We walk by with an aroused balance—
the oncological atmosphere, feeling of wind crashing.

This is exaggeration like odd bodybuilding.
An exaggeration is manipulated into an inbalance,
an unarousing-complement of eating the alias.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/01/08 00:39 | link | comments (1) |
poem, poetry

Our Bodies, Like Theatres, Twitching

I tore open the packages
every week
that you would send me.
I found myself

in pools of shadows,
yourself near my reflection—
the fiercest of politicking
later pinching us flat,

lightweight, trailings of our own
thimbly universe, decreasing
at the apsis. Deleted you out of
my mind’s flowery journal, a glacier

seated as the witness mitigates
our flinty brushfires. On the plane
I returned home as a stripped
interlace, a left-over peeling

upon the pinnacle of your
eclipse. Comparing our favorite
scenes of cinema, we now live
our own film, rinsing at the rind.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 08/01/08 00:35 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

for R., wherever you are:

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/31/08 03:09 | link | comments |
poetry, poem, prose poetry

O surmountedness, faces smile
into facsimiles.

you,

like a fattened wasp of altitude

stinging me with your layers of abstainity.

Whimsy poets will soon
increase their thinking to terrorize Literati;

Superfluously-dadaistic we become,
lazy as shade, excessively

plump, like a pornstar’s thighs
that beg for a centripetal force.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/30/08 23:37 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

The sweeping orange glow of your
sunshine-shimmer, I am nothing more
than a third of what you are; a thawing joint.

The way you speak in different story-lines,
they emerge in waiverable yesterdays;
the way a fracture can provide awareness,

to arise in the morning unresponsive to
past memoirs. The Cause, happily overpowering
half of humanity. To reject a theory for timestamps.

And oh, is that so? As constrained as Oulipo,
what spurs your campaign to identify my hot spots?
The dynamic portal is our native, to be as

conservative as fiftees rhythm and blues.
How must one understand one’s mind with
cell phones and internet packages?

I could swim naked in a tide, pulled,
downloaded by the Moon, assembling my
awakening, consulting the silver springs of my soul.

To alternate spirituality; as mysterious
as Homēros, as decayed as homeland security.
My odyssey is a transcription mixing in controversial

postmodern relevance.Will you expect me
this time next year? I beg of you the memories—
release me from your hands.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/29/08 16:34 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

UNLOVE POEM

Heart defenstrated. Watch it drop
to the ground with a profane splatter.

The hole in my chest, like stealing
Andromeda from the universe.

I step away from you as if I were
an andalusian. Listen out for me soon;

felix culpa. Platforms of my larynx
like the looping likeness of afternoons

where I’m thinnest, a ghostly-sitting
of myself at the foot of your bed

as pale as frostbite. An armload of shin
-bones. I see your stare, perhaps not as

horrified as I would have preferred.
Your indentity, like vinegar, poured

into me as if to make me obsolete, like nicotine
into a body; spiked feathers of protrusian.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/29/08 16:25 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Finding many ways to disappear from society,
that a creature as small as a honeybee
could vanish in 0.10 seconds. “Wouldn't you
miss me at all?” I could create a new society,
as if washed upon the beach out of nowhere
on an uninhabited island, out of the oceanblue;
the mass of the sea as broad as Merriam-Webster.
Maybe enemies or lovers could decide,
decoding to understand the reason. Leave or go?
You must urge the rest of the world to do more.
Look at your home—it’s better than any
word of the day. Think of the paranoia that you’d
leave behind. Hello Self: kneed speech for a bit,
then sit down and let Ethics sit happily alongside.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/28/08 02:38 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

I scream out to you like a Cerberus with vocals.
I quadruple my registers unattemptingly,
like the next bidder that will see what it means
to need aid from an earthquake. Curly tails,
tube jigs, beautiful worsted weight of yarns;
your hair was a sign that you were never a
neat freak. The world today rhymes with
“radio station”: think clearly.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/28/08 02:35 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

I have more than one soul.
                                       I am more than myself
like small plaited yarn
in gestures of rendeira               (manobrando)
tossed into a plate of spaghetti,
tangled, producing distressing concerns.

                                    To split the eye/‘I’ consciously,
something impels me to seek
a certain God, giving God my forecast, my Itinerary
between what pins me down into the cushions of time.
Ah sweet Time, bitter Time, better Times,

                                                 Ah that underbelly
of seasonal clockwork, rented and adapting,
that which stabilizes my “state”
like the roots of plants that ensure sustainability.

How often we struggle, how ceaselessly we move
despite everything revolving, cascading, evolving.
A Person is more than your circumstances.
            There’s a she-wolf in all of us, like di Prima,
fed up with the world, fed up with space, with time.
            I have fed the world what I can’t understand
and it has given back tranquility to me,
spaces in all diameters like painted shades of alopecia
that have gracefully decorated ones crown.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/25/08 18:59 | link | comments |

I still see the daily routines of youth
in certain skins of my Elders, the shins of their eyes
matching those on their flesh. Some of these hands
that seemingly never wrinkle, or at least
that never wrinkle like that of the girl
of a once tender age, sweet bone marrow of kin
made of golden honey, how I long
to reflect them all, magnificent gurus we all become;
to be of equal, or unequal, potency. Familial veins
of pearls & rubies, the entire space between them
filled with light & scent.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 07/24/08 01:15 | link | comments |