tom taylor - THE CALL

Runs through me like isolated instances runs through me like water runs, through me like love’s angular distances in the room without presence or distinction, open signs are further opened by the hand that runs the drill into your being on the street at all no motor running at the ditch of accepted plasms from her voices in your steadily pounding center in the midst of hollow voices in the plane of other folks who lay down beside you each night to dream the strange songs singing in your words don’t stop but run incessantly inside each other making other sounds you can’t quickly forget nor even recall within five seconds the imagery lasting even less than now is not soon enough to make it happen again… comes the door at senses wrung aloud some noise betimes the lesser on the edge a monster in the wings winging upward into the gloom of the dying planet wrung from its promise by the suck and thump of the gobbling screaming oozing figure in the doorway wagging its fingers all fifteen of them on one hand behind its back clutching a book which has no pages filled with the lighted words which fall upon the darkening floor without pity or scorn into some destiny afforded not too soon to remember which way the trail went into the gloom with no tunnel at the end of the light to guide you in forging ahead as you must where the signs are all backward facing with hoods or clothes laid over the reflective surfaces from which no elves sing nor beat the hollow drums which muffle the screams you keep down vomit in your throat assigns no rooms to delay you.

As if awakening from a sleep no dream manifest without words to describe the passage inside the stomach of the beast who carries you further on into the glade and tempo of your own reasoning to be alive carries the distance into color or camp or colony of friends who left their own identifications at the entry to this empty maze of unlighted corridors around the cold, burnt-out pit of indistinctness which allows no solution nor conclusion arriving or leaving at the same time the solipt night which turns infinite chaos into the universe of your own pinpoints of light at the top of your head to let the air into the worm farm glutting thought forms from their own empty creation heals the center has not held but sprung alive from its own destiny like another crop failure on the dark side of the noon into which you’ve poured your energy like a sump or further sign of the unknown inside your particular darkness rancorous puke on your plate of seams.

Heads on poles their tongues blackened with unspoken drivel the last moment heard in silent screams which rhythm from one silence to and through an equally silent further allowances for spaces alienated from their scum at the top of the dirty jar we live inside the hours made unpleasant for our enjoyment no less empty that the alternative universe we imagine for escape from the conscript of our imitation together of the hour at hand an apocalypt yet forward throne of the gloom’s intensity at the sign of this scoop and rumble in the hollow of your armpits are still mined by tiny bugs slowly devouring our entrails like alligator soup in the kitchen of desire uncorrected by the automatic function of the machine which glitters at the top of the chain of command centers not allowing for response or palliation at the screen of intent the formal details the looming post the foreign bags of soil dumped at the edge of the beach the dead fish this morning as far as the eye could see up and down the beach at two foot intervals their gills open their eyes open the birds giving them far distance not feeding on them without explanation or sign.
Fossilectomy of the conscious mind emitting doubt’s despairing wail into the ether culls neither promise nor the absence of folly relieving itself in your drowning hands clawing at the surface of the doom you pull inside your light from an absence of anything different on the horizon of the seconds smoothing away into nothingness…. She smiled across the moving rubber belt which separated us and extended her hand in a greeting I had encouraged her to give by my own simple air and movie, ah the debts of freedom freely given and taken which disallow misunderstanding from their emptiness of intent or fallow signs of intent and program, the singular appositions of the simpler realm which link speech to its hand-waving and eyebrows of commentary and the solid glances in the direction of the screen or the broken wave slamming down on the coast of your own meaning in the term and season of what might not even have been mentioned at the start of the day or at the end of time where we all swim upstream against an unflagging current in the sallow moon not gleaming but staring down upon our simpler acts left on the floor for the sweeper at the end of the day….

Cluttered from the upper down coast where the shallows teem with unspoken rhyme, the dealer smokes his lower face removed from the invisible shades of his blur and loon, a partition at the store not remote or smothered yet clean and jerky to the entering tribes at their own mercy for the terminals hooked apart from any reason or scenario in the night. You’d occluded this far from that but knot upon the seer and crown at fashion from the allowable present, nor remove, nor school them down the airs they crawl aside and hold