Hebesphenomegacorona

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

 

FACTS ABOUT YOUR MOTHER & FATHER

your mother was born without a navel
     or it was covered days after her birth
like a life mask on the belly, greeting
     the idea of spending time with your
mother made you angry. what lasts
     other than leather & diamonds?
pouring vinegar over a rose, I inhaled
     deeply & stopped to nourish what
was sacred.

your father loved the fountains of Venice.
     you said he would get blow-jobs there
from other men. he called your mother a
     witch; still has locks of her hair in ziplocs,
small pieces in a large bag. I spoke with
     him about Africa, which is when I heard
him say “sucked” for the first time.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/27/08 01:12 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

The examined bedroom-shadow becomes crystal subtleties
and the means of parallel existences are applied without requiring simple
zone-pairings. Winter is hiding herself in the crevices of warm boats
where we are brushing against the sides of her stocking-static legs.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/27/08 01:03 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

There’s mist on my stereo
        and I’ve just let the cat
out after she scratched her claws,
        like cartilage-scissors,
onto the glass door—
        Important. Not important to say that
tonight is melanoid, army-vessel’d
observed—

        I pictured my cat, furless,
walking across the yard
       and it makes me appreciate
things that are not in one piece—

Dead-battery Remote-eyes glow back
at the angry visitor who attempts
to be a forcep-contributor—veins
arching out with ease—spideval
openings. Fibers in a pit with no
body-sweat—Do you want me
gentle or opaque like blown glass?

Necessary-netting—A scrotum
dangling from the A-shaped
“V”—turn it over and ask
the duo-organ to better the
Nation. Where did John Goodman
go? He grew horns—

Flexible mischief, the blinded
sunray like a sackful of detail
undescribed in lobes of
loathed jaws.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/27/08 01:01 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

All women are pregnant. The illusion persists.
Mary Magdalene’s crystal-clear belly,
swollen & truckled under,
sifts out swans that sing before dying insists.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/25/08 15:30 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

A (Confidentally-Sucky) Prose Poem

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/25/08 04:25 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

[i am george reeves in color]

rediculous chants
like teething on salt
for the vocab or vacate

collections or vinyl streets
popcorn tins filled with ideas

but here lies the softest
career-killer
smoking prayers   /   idealogical

frat but no tats
ink-blue for blue splotch    old men
in unbathed sun-dried bodies
wearing blues on their forearms
from navy-navy     most of them
‘40’s pinup models

arc the spark
in the juice of things
sprained mirror
where my distortion
becomes my contortion

never important
sanctuaries

cities all grown up in a swell
dwelling      a cellar made of steel
where i rip my shirt off and pretend
i am george reeves in color

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/25/08 03:37 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

[he blows his sax]

he blows his sax                              


                                                                                    it                 ’s saxy
saucy in the wound      when i come out of my skin like when
it dirties                       i shoot better when it                  ’s wet outside

   

              everything sticks to

                                                                 my hands are soft afterwards when
i don                     ’t wash them off after even after
using the washroom bathroom what            ’s
                                                   a slang for every word    southern northern
   


                                                         coke    
                                                         or coa  -  cuh  -  coala
                   
                                                                or coacola    rat
-her

                        or of soda i am bubbling horning in to the
jazz spirit                


                                    this is a jazz poem and



just because i say it                                     ’s so does it mean
that it                                                          ’s so? so? iso glump-cheeked


                                                                                     today     no humidity      
petting my cat              my hands
                                                       erupting with static

like coltrane’s altered expectations         in “giant steps”

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/25/08 03:27 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

          “Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.”

          —Charles Simic

Who’s full of confidence to wear their plans?
At 19 o’clock my denim was restless, zipper
stuck like traffic. After the storm had passed,
I crossed the street and saw a beautiful
Asian woman the vibrant color of Big Bird.
A man with a chain-wallet clung to it with
his pinky. I wanted cherry mousse cake, but
this day I had climbed hills like snails and
needed to be self-started; my mental-estuary
was like light, constantly changing patterns;
a light so heartbreaking that I wished to be
alone. And so I was. I solved a nightmare on
my own lips, cup in palm, a mysterious hint
of abandonment, writing notes about moods.
I wished to evaporate, and re-appear like
spring-tipped stamens, a seagull lost in an
ominous sky, when one’s hugs are like asphalt;
a life in the pulp. I stood on a street corner
with the entire world in my mind, clung, caving,
wind tugging at my body with a force that
must have changed my entire blood flow.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/24/08 21:44 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

4 STORYLINES

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/24/08 02:10 | link | comments |
poetry, thoughts, random, poem, prose poetry

Let me expose to you the regiment, that which covers our unslain sheep,
Our mortal existence, the heavenly-corporals we soon shall speak!
Of every inch of you, misery ‘neath your feet, let your heart proceed
To recruit good-nature, honoring fresh plums upon which we feast.

          Youth will buckle underneath the cordial curtains; Honest nature
          Breaking the thread of one’s discourse, excites desires of
          Wrong-doing, as the golden chain is let down from heaven,
          Spoken tunes of razor-sharp tongue of one’s own known-brewing.

But Alas! Life’s chapters reside in that which inflames our fate,
Truth’s blossoming satin, soft to cuddle, proceeds to reign unfeigned!
Let not the scattering of spoiled countenance rule kindled in your veins;
Or else you will rub your eyes blind, unknown of your fingers’ spades!

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/21/08 20:55 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

HAIKU

Thanksgiving, Christmas:
an anxious crowd gathers for
these two Supperbowls.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/21/08 04:11 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

When I look at
a photographic portrait
I think of the
captured one’s eyes
and then the eyes
of the viewer
and what is in
the middle of
that invisible wall
between history
and the
collaboration of
time and memory.
The viewer
thinks back
while the person
stares back –
the way dust appears
on objects,
unseen 'til then.
Each second
passes, becoming
history, clutching onto
the photograph;
an invisible moss,
an unseeable gloss,
the way rust assembles.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/20/08 15:34 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

for you

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/20/08 02:37 | link | comments |
random, thoughts

L

– devorah major

Mistaking “one” for an “ell”:
1 l 1. Arrow-
heads of this oneness
have split,
like my gut, a slay’d sheep’s neck –
I bleed like females.
Anchor me out of the puddle.
Impos
-ters rinse their faces of guilt.
Everyone knows
that we all “need a kiss
to build a dream on.”
My clumsy tongue
stung by word o’ mouth,
like gradually walking closer
to a fireside. Skin, sockets,
look at your computer-wrist,
palm directly behind the mouse,
bone molded, protruding
21st century temple of body,
underneath a monitor-eye.
Sign here, close your
eyes dark, like how the sickly
are shut in behind the claw’d curtains
of the sinking rhines of time.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/20/08 01:27 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

[them, cave bears mauled the instigator]

them, cave bears mauled the instigator, the fish
in the river glistened silver when the flesh tore
from the bones of ancient night terrors, nasa’s

rovers may be finding evidence. i’m not prehistoric
but i could’ve been a helicoprion, or a soothsayerly
saber tooth tiger. don’t confess what you don’t know.

if you have no other choice but to confess, do it
anonymously. bullet-ins, or enters, the animal, where
did that shot come from, where did the bullet go,

i don’t see a hole. i once stepped on a shark’s tooth
on the beach, and i once stepped on an arrowhead,
both cracked. this pales in comparison to the time

i stepped on the fingernail polish bottle in my friend’s car.
she thought i had blood on my shoes, dried when she
returned. but it isn’t brown, so how-so, i asked.

repentance doesn’t require change, but those that
think of it usually accept it, and those that think of it
will always have that we-watch-court-tv-so-you-can’t
-tell-me-nothing kind of attitude. no way to be construed.

be a poor witness. be what you want to witness.
the holy grail is never lost, so the court typically
becomes a blame-game. i brown like ancestry in yr view.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/19/08 01:48 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Being demanded to “watch God”;
how close do we come
to seeing
            the tops of our heads
without mirrors,
            our reflections in the overhead foil
or chrome ceilings in buildings?

I have a better chance
at watching a Dog;
              what does this word
have in common with the last two words
in the first line, other than God
spelled backwards?                Some things
really need to be italicized. It is often fright
-eningly quiet in this room
where I see                    myself (selves)
                                                 
                                                 waiting
for a phone call. Expectations create
opposites, and opposites
                                       attract,
like attraction and
                     the best way to accomodate anything
is to puke out therapists in theatrical
                     volumes and hold your head of antlers
to the ground as if to give back
                     what the panda-soft soil’d Earth
could never provide.
                                                                Skeletal fingers
                                                     of wintery trees
                                             scratches the sky
                                     in longhand.

I feel more honest. I feel more honest
than nightmares. 
                             More honest than night
suffocating bright things. Magnificent daisies.

Beware of bearded men.
                     Crushed larynx,
vocal-pattern
adjusts
                         like sudden cloudcover
during first morning, sun eroding
darkness
like that of Elvis’s once crushing isolation.

Did he meet a Messiah? Gospel tunes played
on southern radios in small towns in the ‘70’s;
    
     Questions asked
                about the past
                       makes some people reluctant.

                                                    My Mother believes
                                                    that my Father
                                             would often cheat on her,
                   especially after he became
                   the “sound man”
for a band.                           Relation to sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll,
womanizers are flinchy!
                                   and spooky. They all
should be executed without questions asked.
 
But, mistakes happen, right?                   Light

reflects

into

the eyes of a bracken phase,
and like this — good things, bad things — all make enormous impressions on me.
Voluptuous hopelessness.

                                       Tonight, I am a loose definition. My bones
explode within me, under peach flesh, like
a piñata, but a sense of emptiness does not exist,
will never exist, but there will always be
                                                               an aftertaste, yes, an aftertaste,
like love being the “honest state before the apple,”

eyes to beautifully-gag upon. I could have
outplayed Chopin’s fingers,

like out-running an armadillo.

I am twenty-six and still adolescently giggling.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/17/08 22:08 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

KNEEL'D BEFORE AVAILABLE FORBIDDANCE

Kneel’d before available forbiddance,
like living in a Ballroom
or spacial royalty for a King
wiping off food morcels from his thick
beard, dog ear’d
to be what I could’ve been, what
tomorrow would’ve seen.
Youth reabbreviates
thanklessness, percentiles into files,
the floor tiles of life can be cold,
and when I become an old man,
my old temple will still thirst to
foresee phenomenal washing askew
and I won’t have a publicized lifestyle;
there will be no “roots to clutch,”
nor will there be appointments to inspect,
nor an aromatic stutter in a lover’s eye,
nor a blood-stain’d theater to see an actor bloat,
nor will I paralyze practicle particles of Life past
that found the oddest thawing of ice on grey brow,
to witness a fulfillment no more, knotting 
axioms out from my soul’s vines.
We’re outnumbered by drifters and thieves
that are wordily foreseen, like wintery-cold mucilage,
aching like a Tchaikovsky melody,
youth’s button rattling to a higher howl! Wait
and listen.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/15/08 19:06 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

Agruen on the soft, wet brown ground,
crawling around as we do, we pitiful humans,
speaking fume, digging deeper towards
something on this planet, the size
of a musket-ball. There’s no match for
spell-binding pain. Our communication
is like Britain’s nearest neighbor.
I want to speak the walloon language.
I want to speak the balloon language.
I flipped through magazines; a young
couple walked by asking about
tattoo magazines and complaining
about inexplicit compact discs.
Language can be, like, so mannet, like
an unwashed shirt that you have
been waiting to wear again but
still sits in the hamper, unbathed.
Light, electricity, sparkle, flame, air:
no wisecracks please. Hold your breath,
not your horses. After birth, we’re potty-
trained and most newborn humans shed
the flame, end up with potty-mouths.
Bite into the saltine slowly. Tie the silk
ribbon around the gift, epically.
Algae in a wave makes it more beautiful.
Green seas, like being green in the face –
I hate collards, but I am prompted by
social instinct to speak about it. This great
force shakes me like an operator that
has just received a prank call; the settling of
packing material in a packedbed scrubber.
Tungsten bulb aches to be touched. I detect
things in people like a physician in a
clinical interview. Can’t get much by me.
Hot air rises to the top of the observer’s mind.
I sip away the galamelle. The sore in my nose
bleeds away time. My Paradise is stalked
by those try to weaken my margins, but like
the MGM lion, my roar is eternal.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/14/08 13:26 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

AUTUMN LEAVES

autumn leaves
you

in

leaves.

each has a face
surely,

each has a face.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/13/08 13:41 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

TO STOP BEING YOURSELF

To stop being yourself, green eye’d coffee
drinkers are the most reliable, which ex
-cludes myself because my eyes have been
label’d “emerald,” but where are my ex
-piration dates? I used to have a crush on
Jennifer Moxley and would dream of her
often. In one dream, went on a date to an
uppity-restaurant somewhere in a
ginormous city where even lights were a
form of entertainment. But, anyhow,
we sat in our chairs watching “Moxley Crüe”
perform their jazz-ritual. I woke, dis
-appointed, considered myself to be
100% unsimilar. GE Money keeps calling
and I never answer. Another organization
attempting to feed me their garbage, like
eating spoil’d, expired food. What is more
“well-known” other than ‘special people’?
Hope is a flexible joint. Plaster cast mold
of my head on the table. I stared for
a long, long time. This proves that I will
never recognize myself; the fall of a face
where a “line” can be difficult to handle.
Uric acid eats away at certain people
as if perhaps to shorten an interval to enter
into the Kingdom of Heaven. Imagine being
on the cover of a gossip magazine and having
your hair compared to someone else’s.
I feel poker-faced. I could chew on bamboo
with brittle eyes; would you know the
difference in my face? Look closely and
see the lines. I don’t have a money-power’d
upper-body, but I sit as if I do. Don’t be
fool’d; my burning embers are kept quiet
as I sit by this window pretending that
I am who I was before, as full as a pyramid.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/13/08 02:40 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/12/08 17:34 | link | comments |
poetry, poem, prose poetry

INNUENDO IN YOUR WINDOW

_________________________________
_________________________________
|                               | |                               |
|                               | |                               |
|            In                | |              nu             |
|                               | |                               |
|==============| |==============|
|                               | |                                |
|           en                | |              do              |
|                               | |                                |
\_______________| |________________/
||                                                                ||
/________________________________\

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/10/08 23:17 | link | comments |
visual poetry

TWO POEMS

i.

I find ways
to invent a speech
without failure

until,
eventually,
my tongue

becomes assassinated
to establish
excess meaning

as if all I’ve said
had exploded
like a star
halfway
across the universe.

ii.

To privilege a center,
like a gradual decrease
of the outer-layer of
a blowpop,

the nucleus reveals itself
like a Muslim woman
ripping off her hijab.
Brief religion

is a vein in the neck;
head as swollen
as bell-bottoms,
like an ego,

mental-denim stretched
as if needing hemed.

Scanning over
the Kennedy Curse,
as it be,
Time crumbles
like an expired coupon.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/10/08 12:58 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

I am standing on cardines – just call me Sciapodas.
If. If. If light were not the problem, imagine thought without shadow.
A foot here, a foot there (the way your

hand resembles the break in this sentence
feeding something else for me).

Our lips are nothing
                              when we wake.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/06/08 15:06 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

There are places in India that are said
to have no shadows; where the north star
doesn’t ever appear. The “Ascis” quarters,

where there are no recognizable hours
kept there. And like this, Lights Out—
mighty pertic’ler, you make me exhausted.

I take the camera’s “side” as if it were my
whiff of identity, a souvenir, a moiety.
I recall your coping mechanism when 

you had a temper tantrum at a
gas station in front of your Mother.
Your hypersensitivity was a slow axis

moving around me like yoga training exercises.
I was a giant water spot on your lens;
a pale brown finch scattering.

I called you during Christmas.
Your strange voice populated all that
I needed to know. You planned it this way

just to cut and run. You were like
television commercials: A brief interior
of dark America, saluting you.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/05/08 21:48 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

STUDIES FROM A PHOTOGRAPH OF MY UNCLE'S FACE

Stessuble, hyper-observation of stubble,
          Thick beard of eiderdown,
Further studies, hardly any observation around,
          Eyes like the Hubble
   
          leading me to a conclusive-itch'er that
my uncle resembles that of Eugene Pelletan;
          at least in the fitness of things,
eye-brows down. Face, distinctive as a pelican.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/05/08 21:44 | link | comments |
poem, poetry

To be sensual, to force it out wheezingly.
Emotion is statuesque, given away to Aeschylus,
butchered irrespectively to a birth of embodied
worry, but forgives us, we tempters, our temples:
embers in spite of the spitfiery poet’s meritorious
shockingly-pale etherealness, as pale as
coastal Namibia. Pickled, her tongue moved
around in her mouth, she found coupons under
the couch, one day from expiring. Pay the price.
Open the curtains wide. Light is a chatterer,
let sound be dismissed like a stigma.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/04/08 00:54 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

A moment
trembles
out of shape,
re-arranging
an aura
like a photograph
that produces dues.

The boy
in the camouflage
aims at me
from a dark green shrub
behind an old dumpster
whereby
it appears as though
he were hunting me
like an elephant.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/03/08 21:28 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

PRESS THE RED BUTTON

I know where time goes, Old time. Your face, in sepia,
darkens under the eyeliage. I am not disappointed to say
that I could reproduce your face. But time, like age,

are two silences apart that cut like hard leather;
thick summer where you perish in southernscape, your peculiar
northern-born bones resembling wash-worn acalephe.

We have to take what’s given or else find “worth” in a biddinge.
I ‘x’ the plat, burn holes where I expected you; I think of 
the first word that was ever uttered in the history of mankind;

Hiss, a word of sound, the most popular melody of sin?
Flip your passport, are you really you? When we were silent
I could hear you speaking to me in your car; I heard you say:

“Take my psychological xenium with you before you leave,
and let it lead you directly into my membrane of Being,
for it shall unite you in two places at once; the first:

the Heart; the other: of the Psyche’ -- tread carefully. . .”
Intuition is the best “feeling,” or the most critical indication
rigged with electric bolts. Press that large red button, darling,

and feel the rumble underneath your ground, and watch me,
see me, preciously, ackwardly explode. Dig me out of your
foul elevation. I end somewhere, beginning everywhere.

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/03/08 21:26 | link | comments |
poetry, poem

posted by: DerrickTyson at 11/02/08 18:09 | link | comments |
poetry, poem, prose poetry