tom taylor

Caught up inside the secret of my secret, worn trident not sticking to any guns at all but focused and tiny, a consultant from the other side rewinding my ticker-tape sense of something unregulated or dismissed… a flogged weave stuck on the dessert of undue proportions without redeeming characters, just a formal post stuck in your chest with labels all around the town clamming to the right and left tides against which nothing remits or pools afloat the husker due his moths and schisms… warm climax feels the say and toad his letter bomb unleased by apartheid rules from outside their zone of despair, not willing to escalate nor to rid the tomb of its graffiti proclaiming the holy czar a ruler in disguise no more but nailed to the cross of his own intentions to be on top of the gig.

Even the salmon find it difficult, swimming against the tide with their hands chopped off by the ‘rebels’… if they do it to them, they’ll do it to us, don’t forget that for a minute in your objectivity and distance from the frame of intentions decorating your bedroom with decals and posters to a non-existent fixion the name of which escapes me, fortunately. The yew of he is the imprint you left on me ten thousand years ago when we were hung, er, young, er, jung… now it’s splash and spasm, held prisoner by a love against your will and fervor, left on the doorstep with the other orphans you met along the way… I’m not complaining, you know, just musing in my beer or wine in this case… Ichiro made a diving catch, sliding his face into the grass like a ploughshare, so their pitcher nailed him with a 92 mile an hour fastball right in the knee, that’ll slow down the little bastard… not so, he came back with isometrics and an unknown diet, just like Joe Montana getting up the next week to nail Jerry Rice in his outstretched arms again and again.. and so it goes.

So in the mysteries of love’s anchor on the heart, like a dirigible in reverse, the negative colors of the lighted sky leaving the black stars on a blaze of white light from the glow on the horizon you thought you’d never see or tell your children about, duck and cover, it’s not too late a hundred years ago, the turtle’s shells melting under the force of our deceit. What’ll flex your tremors is the sign of the times evading your cautious glow around the edges of the plate while the food shatters into its molecules and poisonous, foreign substances introduced like cardboard in your yabyum or cloture on the passage, ah, the passage itself from gloom to doom, as if you’d dance all night with the queen of the savages only to find the ghost of your mother coming up out of the watery depths in the dream, a wrinkled crone, trying to drag your ankles and pull you down again and again.

It’s a pretty unremarkable substance, this phlogiston in the mind without pity or form, a languor passing for memory which is more like a quilt than a lining, as if liberty itself were just another mis-spelled work or trance-glance flowing along the lines of beast resistance, cavorting among the daisies while the dance of death plays on the radio with the best advertisements for anything at all undistinguished from the muter dee which clogs the arteries and chasms of the formal diatribe which seems to rule the day, seems you say, seems and seams of light which cannot be described or pushed away from the table in any passion at all, an indistinct atmosphere of caution and broom, the wild flowers on the land are growing taller by the day, their stalks as thick as the handles on the paint roller, or are you getting smaller in proportion to the folks who lurk at the edges of the day in their own drama clean and pure in the ignorance of their very clothing…
It’s the posture of the season, it’s the nature of the deal we made with whomsoever…