tom taylor - surely the rapture will claim you

Surely the rapture will claim you…. ‘pity poor manunkind not’ Cummings has it right, why not extinctify? This virus, man, scourge upon the quiet waters of the planet full of its own gentle species infracted beyond recognition in the waning hours of history’s history. Would at had no other in seeming set nor strained a hustler on the face of time reaming out the hills and valleys of their lyricas and ensemplanado of the forging tongue, she’s screaming out again, release me, as if no outer…. This virus, man, blotting out the map with points on the compass falling water skeins the due and formal hours away from their target sun glanced beyond fervor instant definitions clog the hair with formal relict pores.
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if man extinct what will the planet miss? It’s own demise no doubt continuing with the huge spiders of the sci fi movies left around for everyone to see, just making sure there’s no doubt on the face of it any more than you’d expect from abandonment and refusal from the very air surrounding the blue ball groaning with disuse and dismemberment, ‘glad I’ll be gone when it happens’ older brother speaks, how can he not but see the pain coming down the road with your faces on it a nomenclature of unspoken deeds, so what’s the great loss in losing our fleeting battle with the elements, awaiting the next predictable tragic loss of life not unlined sarcophagi rooting in your mists and songs….
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cling these hours sullen in declining mists and change the long way around from the poem to its absolute without punctuation or exclamations in the dark hours at the train station you missed all around the waves unclaimed luggage from the crematory on the hill asided musks notwithstanding hours left on the side of the road unwilling tenants of the absorbed species as ‘the planet is bathed in blood’ Lafitte has it…. Are these signs to be ignored, repainted in blue and gold like a college yearbook with photos for each of the sacrificial lamps sputtering at the edge of the sign berries on the wall beside you making juice unimportant loners clutching at the rust and pliny in her hair….
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ropes hanging over the side of the ship for the rats to flee the sinking in your heart a symbol of the deeper stain unimpeded by any reasons on the list of songs to play over and over as the twilight lengthens into unspoken roils of plane and simple call you down the long trail widening across the mouth of your river of strange insulations which call the song another trail to follow in its times and seasons like a mystery or a blue balloon she cut loose from the pack and allowed its flight a beacon on the martyrs of the night gathered in the brig for days and days without light or fury but an inexpressible absence.
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still and clear the waters cleanse the rooms of all that held them lingering in the must and mention of the solemn tower upraised without expectation or pity but the patches on your quilt another sign of inattention to the smaller details which normally would not escape scrutiny or focus from behind the mirror no friends are watching this betrayal of their own species toward the normal processes of life on trial for his life again yet again the hours chime unexpectedly as the world clock winds onward into the later dreams of what might have been except for the rapacity and greed of the dominant stain upon the mattress and flavor as if designed to be ignored and extinctified and let the remaining moments heal the place of our presence love’s altered rooms denied the infinite pressure of your hand in mine, ‘how do you like your blue eyed boy now Mr. Death?’