tyson bley

[De-Con-Struc] FrankenCop // Tyson Bley

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This is not a review but my method of reading experimental work, which is, in basic form:

Examine context/premise.

Go through the text and see what flows and what jars, which lines spark some kind of reaction.

Try to pull out the allusions, intended by the author or invented by myself.

Head off on tangents.

Speculate what the meaning might be.

Stop about thirty pages into the text to avoid spoilers.

I am not an expert, or an academic, or even anchored in reality half the time, so a lot of this could be way off.

But could also be way on too.

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Book: FrankenCop

Author: Tyson Bley

Publisher: Schism Press

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[Background/context]

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I’ve read a lot of Tyson’s poems and sent zines to post offices in Germany that may or may not have existed and listened to his song Gertrude’s Knees, so I usually know what I’m in for.

Body horror

Machinery gone wrong [or right, depending on your views]

Extreme juxtaposition of cultural references with anything conceivable

A bizarro, unforced sense of humour

Dada-style off-lyricism [or maybe zaum]

Continue reading →

Robocop 2 // Tyson Bley

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Recording this curdles the wild machine man’s insides.

Robocop car sick, stone cold simmering rainbow

mud, time’s shards’ bereavement smell

folding a unique, disrespectful computer hue

along the alley where the neuron once went bowling.

It is now an archeological site. Only phantom memories,

weird, nasally funereal, pretty-woman sounds go

dancing here. Dead bodies’ friendly recoil.

Fright night. Texas Chainsaw Massacre at one with

the saxophone of pure evil.

Surroundings contoured with Leatherface’s brow ridge.

Writhing covering an electro prod’s

fang tension, tucked under the ripped-off face,

wet basketball jersey soaking up the feel

like a zombie’s mustache.

Insects scooping out the petri dish.

Slayer comprising the nerd’s every subconscious

bodily function.

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Tyson Bley is the poet responsible for Drive Thru Zoo over at Schism Press and more recently the singer and lyricist behind songs like Gertrude’s Knees, which you can listen to at MerylxStreepx

Cuban V // Tyson Bley

Image result for chopping mall

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I
At once separated land that’s a sweet yellow-
moonlight and mollusk’s arms sleep and
hang loose, like say what is wrong with
that, maybe… Hot air betrays one’s shirt at
the highest level since animal testing and
“it surprised”, whom_normally_at once you
want fine spazz as influx settles down –
huge amount of your brain on spiritually
rejected egg proves journey rigorous,
mistakenly.
II
He’d bought from this previous one, pushed
every sound into a horror-alley, this month out of
trade referring to a mall with calls of need; wholesale
no matter what awaits them, comes this disgusting
person across the wilderness rough day to girl at
the Daily Planet, then violence suspended turmoil
swamped smart cello mane, and cast online Bohr just
with hips not swivelable with smoke he plans to break
electric car’s baby brain FREE of burger made more
beautiful set to music!
III
Though he’s hella anti-constellation, therefore condensed
will never be shaped like RoboCop in style wanting –
old violence from seeing it on television – it is so popular e.g.
frenzied human, urban hologram’s grip on carcass recurring
had a dick repeatedly, veiny shits heavy aquamarine.
Getting CGI breakfast coldness in UFO have a slight
aversion… To say the problem of time is rounded history, well
in the coach jacket it is so good it hurts his dungeon craft
where wholesale prescription drugs do not, is slightly

inaccurate.

Mysterious Doctor Satan // Tyson Bley

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The large testicle entombed in R2-D2 (arms stretched) splashes on his Nikes,
needs R-rated persuading by traditional girlfriend, ecstatically, or else be
mesmerized by a looming network of death farms – a reiterated glimpse into
their galaxy of centerfold coral, into the pollution (of hate) of the self-driving car.
Cancer killed my dog (the bad movie’s velvet oddity appears and disappears
very quickly). Squat itself in Tinder shambles mock-throwing FBI music-
bollocks at an atlas (representing a more empirical Tumblr) on Japan just
when the ultimate Vader of librarians joined a Turkish boy band and Mexican
adults huffing the mystery malice of Poster Brit’s misty Caesar vaping soulful
death knell in infinite pork jersey and Vans condescended to race using
Martian philosophy. The cries of overhead fish match the accents of children,
those squirrels of Europa who announce the return of the virtual world (on stickers).
The uncontrollable whitewashing of Victorian bad posts through the death of
Weird Twitter seduces the KKK into a spree of postal sex, their horrid paramedics
horrified, struggling in confusion to unevenly flash a muggled vampire shrinking
in the pool at a friend’s wedding reception – which fairy tale descends into surrealist
porn over the next thousand years like addiction eating at a fresh tie. Roses backlog a
monster’s dry underbelly. Nude against a red wall on the street opposite Love’s
underground butchery whispers through paper burned money in a bundle in the
hand of an android screaming in rental cars burned into the night screaming all
other parts of the meme OK…. The dick increases (in size) if you kick it in the ear. Its
(interior) lake buzzes like a helicopter through rings of subterranean beer forfeiting
the old-fashioned Count’s grudge by falling in love with/in praise to itself
with flu’s sound.
#
Notes:
i] ‘traditional girlfriend’ refers to Meg Tilly in ‘Psycho 2’
ii] ‘seduces the KKK into a spree of postal sex’ – in 1972,  five low ranking members of the Compton branch of the KKK tried posting racy letters with copies of ‘Barbarella’ to black residents, hoping to lure them to a park and brain them. The plot failed for obvious reasons.

Continue reading →

Sonic’s Ride // Tyson Bley

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Statue enters multi-story car park on mechanical bull. Kick butt music. No one concerned yet…. I fucking love this game. Quick hard slam of a meaner yellow inflator, slow dramatic dismount still wearing soup of helmet fog. Soon the jokes will begin to tapestry a delicious rotting tragedy among the creepy onlookers’ barking gut bacteria: in united pyramids, a body of acid wants you dead…. a recycling of sick home video wears its luxury torrent like fallout, dams in hangover resulting in collision….  So, in my real world, the maid cancelled Sonic the Hedgehog: “You will notice that I have concerns with the Doritos,” she says. “Hey, perhaps I am not a very good shrek!” Through toxic waste I glimpse the room sized dream; the saddest apocalypse is still quite intrusive, culminates in neighborhood saturation wound. “Pal, you are.” Gadget hits sister’s baby, the sheer fucker atmosphere dehydrates the hot module ruining the virtual reality bees; anonymously, their dead can in some fashion keep themselves well numb.

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Questions:

i] Who cancelled Sonic the Hedgehog and why?

ii] What size was the dream?

iii] What provoked Gadget to hit sister’s baby?

iv] Was that Inspector Gadget or was it something else?

v] Where was this whole thing set?

vi] Tell me three ways the saddest apocalypse could be intrusive. Continue reading →

Psycho Holosuite #Issue 1 [Out Now]

psycho holosuite7-2

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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]

Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]

Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville, Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].

Release date: Now

Notes:

Well, after printing this thing 5 months ago and watching it sit in a box in the corner of my living room doing nothing ever since, I can finally say, man, it’s out.

By ‘out’ I mean available for order in stripped down e-form on amazon, and on its way in glorious zine form to the following places:

Atomic Books [Baltimore]

The Coming Society [Hong Kong]

Sticky Institute [Melbourne]

Housmans [London]

Book Thug Nation [NYC]

Molasses [NYC]

Quimby’s [Chicago]

There are still 4-5 places we’re gonna add to this list, but you can find out more about these confirmed stockists here.

All of them are decent and well stocked with zines from all kinds of people, so even if you don’t like our one, you probably will like at least one zine there.

Also, if you want to order a copy, just e-mail us and we’ll see if there’s any left.

What’s in Issue 1 of this zine?

Well, there’s: Continue reading →

[Preview] Psycho Holosuite Zine // Issue 1

psycho holosuite7-2

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Zine: Psycho Holosuite [Issue 1]

Pages: 80 [print version], 90 [e-version]

Contributors: Berit Ellingsen, Frankie Sachs, Soren Melville [cover artist], Thomas Stolperer, Marc Horne, Tyson Bley and me [Oli].

Release date: September 1st

Publication: Every 3-4 months hopefully

Notes:

Unlike the Gupter Puncher zines I’ve done before, I really like the name of this one.

The issue number was going to be higher to give the impression the zine’s been running for longer than it has, but I scrapped that idea and just went with ‘1’.

80 Pages isn’t that many, even with 6 other contributors.

Theme? Stories?

The first issue of this zine will deal with a] authenticity and b] dread.

The stories will be alive and integrated fluidly into the zine, not just put down on the page to be admired.

There will be e-mails and comments and tangents all over the place.

There will be time travel and dying astronauts and riker from Star Trek [barely] and a hybrid designed specifically to colonise Mars.

There will be a Ray Bradbury piss-take.

There will even be notes for most of the Freddy films written by me pretending to be Robert Englund. Continue reading →

Vulcan Erotica // Tyson Bley

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This is my kind of poetry…, short, weird, sci-fi-ish, bizarro, funny and the word choice is almost always spot on even if I have no idea what he’s trying to say…

Tyson does lots of these over on soapstain and zizekpress

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Vulcan insomnia forges a portal through the underbelly of

a shaky tricorder, which Spock points at his wig and

mock shoots himself with, alone in his purple room,

rattling off a series of atmospheric extinctions.

A frogman with false-looking teeth will be described

as steeped in cum-tarnish the next time he points that

thing at a dog’s rubber chew toy.

After a very poor display of ‘impulse containment,’

the tricorder finally ‘recognizes’ the wig.

Flooding the corridors in tight sleepwear, the startled crew

hears the machine gun noises of time standing still,

the creaking of giant rain standing still, a shiny tumbling of

miniature gas. A white-out of taekwondo muff, riding up.