tom taylor - reclaimed at other air

Reclaimed at other air, vapors holding affirmed presence like memory’s draft on the plane of time… here’s the outer gales of information cluing into your cellular loft and pencil moons on the lines of rhyme would image-out some other collar on yr wrist & portal into the other room where the dancing bears play in the moonlight, drunk on wine and any other old mashed up berries, even the anthill is swarming with light, some days the whole colony is out running up and down the sides with their mountains of pine needles and other soundlessly working up from the day it looked like someone sat on it.

Still, the day’s nature is plain enough for descriptions and fundamental differences in age and so forth, they seemed to hit it off right from the start, like a dance in the moonlight ages ago went like this and like this, bang, off the planet and into the wave-light of the silent cosmos( . Further on that that would be where the road ended and the map just didn’t have any more to offer, like, ‘unexplored regions’ yeh, of your heart and center, one day from Trinidad and you have to go and get drunk, what’s life all about Ronnie?

But the natural soup was bursting with light inside its’ seeds and shells from another roads were not hidden but led up from a hot, dry plane of inattention suffused in a pale sky-blue arrows rained from everywhere colonizing the air with penetration & musk. It was not so much a bluff but a lated call in the ozone which left you gasping for heirs. No matter in her musk, you said, it’s all a flat call in the harmonious decahedrons of the heart. That’s enough, the doorway bloomed suddenly like a refutation or a drawer on fire. Wrapped around the end of the line, the sentence picks itself a dry place to land on. On which to land…. These were the floated wisps of time and drama that appealed for recognition at the end of the day… these were the roasted flowers rising in the soup.

Incandescent-out yr flavored missiles, indirect current in the moonlight of your perceptions, how the air settles around her white shoulders like a ruminant dune. This was the hour of which you’d spoken, not unlike the blinders on the sun you some times feel in your hair, brushed in by some celestial spider’s web and song Arachne of the lines and seasons, curling her song amongst your back channels and reasoned tides. Tense, perhaps, but not an anchor on the loom of fate, not soon enough for that.

You’d appealed, not reasoned. But gerunding like a verb, he’d split the act quite in two without even thinking about it, now there’s a random push against the wall that succeeded…. One of many…. You know, the one about the cannibal who passed his friend in the woods…. A sharp stone of despair between your cheeks…. A flagrant outlaw on the scene of thyme and rosemary inkblots in the male against his cheeks and gums…. It was the non, spread apart like a map or siltow, silchow, whatever…. Now was not the time to quibble over definitions or terminology at all, no matter in the mists of chance delivery on time and running for cover, it was the last dash up the hill to secure the muskets and the walls and the enemy in treasonous disguise against the will of the people denied like ‘relaxation without representation’ was the substitute of the hour when the roads all led somewhere intersecting repeatedly going in circles was the mark of trade allowed betimes unwilling sentences not wanting to end at all at the place they were feted and garlanded to go on for ever sailing the rooms and spasms of the innoculant few who remained sitting for the entire ceremony, the ensemble group fusing into one solid thing.