tom taylor - so

So I called rune surface and ordered up some dicks and spittle. The new hairy pothead book lay in the table, legs spread invitingly without a smile of approbration in sight, but the fortress lay unguarded and the sounds were coming in against my still beating heart, a newer fashion in disguise, I thought… her cent hung in the air like a pare of warriors in their destiny and fusion, no retreats in their surmise and murmur for some loser hands were in repute for the coastal mirage, links and flatter at the whore. Some will call this a rang dragoon all aisled in canal lox from heat to boredom in the same dreads notwishstanding… the antelope idled at the floor, hoofing into the noon with sentries, clusterfuck and dragon flags were spread into the rheumy present along with the demon.

No threats found, the screen bugled… the master spoke inside my right sinus cavity while another tooth got ready to bite the dusk hauntingly profunct, time for herbal endodontry in disguise, and another plexi-moto in reheat or funnel to the tune of not. Now it showed a blurred zero, out of focus, a surficial green in the heirs around then. Butt-knot Formee cleaned the walls feathered out faces in the grain of would-be planters at the door, maybe some were headed in, one touch fits awl. No more. The empty hours clattered on the clock’s stupid grin from behind the numbers… she pushed against me from memory’s rough stick in the nose and made water on the floor.

This is not simple at all, I muttered to my self which did not answer but lay there inert. The blue noises went on into another realm for inattention in the open seasons of the landing parties from beyond the pizza made of bacon and wheeze. Not ewe, I fought. It was just two late poles from the shoe-shine stand, rocking back and forth on their heals. “Stroke this” the taller pried, floating forward too soon to be enamored yet too late from the distance of the cosmos which illuded into must and framer. The walls yielded into season while the rough gantry pulled apart like a muffin. Nice for you to say, I sought into the micro-dog at the door. She barked my shins and laughed aloud. Sinkhole.

This is your fictional presence, I voiced, this is your document on the strange antics of the brain in season but left out to rot. No vice but the only. An indistinct reveille clawed again you ceded for the fence not the apposite buttressed and calm. Lorks to the due, but leave them left, not writ nor pedaled, mediafiles stroking their television sets against the raw but present dangers from disguise not peddled a file along children in the hall’s walls. This is the empty day, this is the fortunate hour, this is the monster at the gate.

Some deis nip the bud, sign at the bong and roach read, ‘how may we serve you?’ then left or rite on the master’s gloom unalided yet spoke now and then, some songs on the air between us, nexus and groom, post and beam, funk and wagner cleaning up today after the game when the stands are empty and the dry, withered popcorn blows across the acres of dust and crime which inhabit our drying sphere of influenza, long long after the barn door has been sold or stolen, it doesn’t matter which you say into the ark and science of these longings for a newer shrine in the heart’s emberic locus of distastes, the forgotten sentry shoulders his arms one after the other after the other and lays down among the other shadows to sleep, my prints, to sleep this fazzled woe of prides and reasons again
In the hours of the day which pole toward the horizon in unwilling gasps of delight
From one sign into the fellows who clean up after you, inventing their own dreams.