tom taylor

Dumb down the dumb how to throw? Lates the noir puta, she ‘has offered to let me kip at her crib while I suss out the scene’ ol Dirty Ernie writes. Adrift in the alimentary canal, dear Watson, no favor in your dog treats, belay that pinner, dude. I’d not remained a sentry for nothing, a few years is enough to call this hour dead in the water is late with the food… heals the deal, no future in the ski shop closing down early, but flowing like chocolate for hebron, n’ere due teal or out. Skim the silly duck frown, nox palentia, in your ear with a frozen billedeux held firmly vibrating skin at the dawn alienated (on screen) from hours crept into the dunk meister, late crap aside, vomit the red dawn from childhood strangers with no candy in sight, I sigh your melting new moon from anywhere on the page unattended lights rewind dumbshit tapes back onto the plug. Forced labor in the delivery room at low pay. Dimples wrapt in doubt like dark chocolate kisses from Nigeria in the delta of venus sad afar in northern eye-rack they blow jobs from the Inner Expansive Devoiders on your felt pan or fried lungers on the plate of wife and spasm Jimmy’s carder murmurs at the wing and span, no bridge claws the air rooster likes her more than naught eee, then fluxus dream the passage of rhyme beyond screams are night moves on the screen of taught or muther facture one car at a thyme’s own season at light’s lingering lynx at the mouth of the cave, teeth or razor blades for the rapist’s scorny, buttered slime dwellers fold a rancorous blue ox

The mist broke slowly through the rein of tear her into pieces for the disappeared at all times and reasons, another type o’lander, mute foxes rue the dei at beads of worry from the halter round the room, dance dunce-like, a pointer headed up the line lying time at time’s own idiot prince in the beige house on the poster boy has slipped apart from the dead walking shaun’s dream of passive identity aggressed toward the dream-clerk charging too much for not enough is regular capitol isn’t, there’s the rub and rancor chilling at your beak no splinter flux her rather like a dean of inspection at the front office, clock ticking only on the minute, pound pound, it’s a raw rue in the pan of life, cocked and loaded muffs your whey and spinky downtown craps the hooter up again formal lakes o’ land, butt her toast the forced entry is the day’s day inherent posts are loose or fraternal links have spread across the loaf-in-skye king for a day but dead at the end of the play, like history, like donuts, like another sign of light behavior on the road to better deeds imagined but not scene for a wrong time, “lead my rips” the restaurateur floated above his painted plates, won ton at a time, day by day a ray of light escapes

Letter up, flomax nauseous, wrinkled dayskin, dead fish walking, man in a hat says no, chinky longbow named him fluke of the ear, ding and dong the winning duo at the doubles doubles four at a time at the net, ark and triumph motor the cycle down the road of strife a shit sandwich laughing in your face, where’s the bred love movement at the ridge of the elementary canal has one stop too many doors, scanned successfully I’m told against my will and testaverde greenballs at the center point where the tackles wait behind him for death’s calm unfolding nurture of madness was the day’s particular fold on the skin of deeds melting from the friezes old malthus’ premature ejection from history’s naught and plenty, sucked dry against the door, as ‘i’m nobody who are you’ reads my headstone, ‘look for me under your bootsoles’ with jimmy buffet singing ‘the last line,’ that’ll do for my scattering of ashes soon enough no doubt but left for the day’s own beginning to be the same again you fold apart and fly away paper sticky new tone