tom taylor - set phasers on pun

Mr. Hulu, set phasers on pun… aargh, capn, them’s that dies’ll be the lucky won…no scar bristles pinecone wilderness the foetus left undisturbed on the floor of the cabin in requisite simplicity for the coming declination of practically everything in sight of the hopeless breadline at the end of the day where the forgotten ones resound into the night with piteous misshapen hordes of insect people roaming the plantforms from their own perspective a woolen throng or a discard of ancient regimes in French perfume to hide their swollen bellies from the prying eyes of the pornographers clogging the internet with strange requests directed at children who cannot yet read between the lines or even on top of them at all, doom’s day at last, no more waiting in the wings for a flightless camp to remind you the day is emerging full of light and easier dues than reaped the past escarps.

The dark finally collapses in upon itself, weighted thorough and threw in the insolence of its ambition to rule the day which cannot be left undone but emerged from clouds of indef and non… penguins enraged by formal discourse are dressed in sidewall tires scuffed by the curb on your own require no answers in the male or female either will do to class the time of its own dimensions on the muse of plenty enfaturated en retard to the final day of claimant’s thread and future… the hours class flinty in her musk and seasons, like the tone poems for the decline and fall of practically everything in sight from here on out.

The dark finally emerges filled with light, another blended sustenance for the days ahead where an agony is replaced with hope for a newer calm which might fill your chest with an inner light which has no source but flows through you like water into the night and transforms the empty hours into a single continuous hum from among the whales singing ‘you’re making me deaf’ and then charges words with their own seaming from the tight knots of dissolve and penny. Your own discordant heartbeat slows to a single pounding and roofs your conniving spirit within its own definitions like a dove descending from the skies with a beacon in its beak, revived from its encounter at the picture window with an impenetrable plane of invisible penetration…

He posed in the dude for a magazine without covers or advertising containing only the buff and plenty from the cowboy world of chaps and spinners, another rough trade document was flung upon his doorstep by the boy on the bicycle who was trying to send his father to college so he the paperboy might have a better birth, working backwards as it were, or as it was in the past tense enough to plan for his future with some say in the matter at hand and legs akimbo on the straining platform where the lighted spheres spun and sang from the dark allowance and making the overt manners cling and spin and flow from indistinct quarters and dimes no matter in the movie only the cook gradually growing fatter as she continually sampled her work on camera with a solemn ‘yum’ in the evening of her marriage to someone who left strange panties under the carseat for her to find.

Again however a marker in the sand declines your invitation to resume your doubt, it’s just not working any more, and the alternate lies becalm you into a morose plug in your ears making the music less than prosperous aligned from what’d been past and former yet a promise to defend assumes your heated screening of the lighted sphere around you an emanation from the wind itself which carries you forward beyond your merest schemes.