tom taylor

1. Buff canal

A few more days til the rock star appears
“Boef” his named salience peals the light away

marks your eyesore a framing fane
Tom Jones’ nuts in a vice, squeaky clean

Came the finality endorfed within struts or claim
Your heart a beading entity within fore-whomed

A nude eel, a fashioned semen, clarified butter
Arts my slimy side a newer dream to come aside

He claims aside no thicket ticket clams overside
The mother fucker of light itself


2.. Inquires after nothing

Your allowance penetrated my being
Left fibers intact, implied that the rescue was false

‘no hope before mournings’ was the line following
(I’m not talking.)

thus lamer tred, the fo’cstle fermented, oversubscribed
like a presents, floored into vivid documentary channels

the well-known tula-man… hits, and then succumbs to silence
I’ve called you forward (to no avail…) a former tune

Hear, the master-dine, your slimy, unattractive silence balloons
This way, that, a wait-station. This airy due, unformalized or

Your needs and butts. I hear the sudden, sinking fermentations
Deep within my plasms, the wet dusk of being at all…