tom taylor - jungle deadline

Jungle deadline defilade the man with no hands points the way out, jingo headline reads the air in no simpler sate meant not plunder nor hold under the ice floes a half mile thick.
The ancient forest underneath does not think of itself as oil or anything else. O leonine one the air surrounds your journey to life’s beginning from what once was there on the farm a lesson in disguise your nuded back to the lens was my own shy forgetfulness in the morning of my own retreat in an academic beverage at the street corner in disguise.

In the bleak silence of the dream no sound from speaking lips a kind of telepathy for everyone in the dream is me, even me. A twangy music enters the cabin, nasal stridence indicates paysage at a dumber reach her head a mass and fashion from which to dance into the chimes blending nose and gay the letter of the hours in transit a talking blues rolls under the bridge across tumbled waiters two verses melt into one stereo bastion the lutes unfounded history is left over disguise in the winter holding pattern of the heir.

Local descent is threat and science at the alter the long walk between segments two afghan houses black and white trotting onto the scene looking for food, mainly, me. Lost is hardly the word for it. It’s a gran faloon, a blue balloon, writ wide not scent her out butt lost in ancient skies a hot air reminding the dream to rain you out of your hide and seek betrayal of your own prison clothing crumpled by the door or next to the bed’s chair finds you seeking through old offices only their names left from graduation day no sheep skins you by the drive in mechanic who nonetheless bought you off the hook.

Disguise is the treat. Bingo breadline crosses the letters off the page again, an emptying and a fissure words emptying the page’s said line a posture on the sands of rhyme heals the beating metro gnome at his pounding gavel on the bar of strife empty glasses all around I’ll pay again for their possible defeat on the ground a million dead the land in ruins for victory’s defeat after all said and dun particles colored gray men in gray units punctuate the air with random rifle fire from random rifles raised into the air kabang’d little acts by equally little folks wandering the face of the land in lost waterless circles.

While he needled my dying tooth we spoke of dental torture, well he said I think it was the tongue we left it at that yours the potent sighing filling sperm sacks aloft & sudden from whence lents were maid & used maidens from the lower arks of your spinal plodding from let to sight infernal putations where reflux connects corrects a sounded plinth marks musical notation into fifths unsealed bottles on the wall a hundred more in season leans her dazed reliance on the dream to undo any harm unintended particles remote the scan to reveal no threats or interferences you’d care to report any time near the end or not.

Many disappeared into foreign designations their futures professed summary intern the lair deep into the hillside filled with furs and diamonds by the traders who hid their lessons in the dark brilliance on the hot, black sands of the isthmus landscaped by bombs and leavings on the plate of dreams not positioned into sanctimony nor defeat not really applicable terms for the emptiness subsiding into silence in the darker hours whose forms are not welcome here any more you leave and find awake a bleak room you don’t recall.
This is the hour at hand, the meat on your fork finding its own way into a dream as well.