tom taylor

CHEMO NAUSEA


slag like s’gutted spunk tarry ditch weed no fervor in this
lengthening rider on the kill. To date no replies at all
but the wobbling spinning head of it the stomago riled
with cactus infusions ants dancing on your inner organs the
slow melt of the cells themselves are left inside your shit is
less holy now than the monk who streams inside your stink

sum news the repent of all’s stance in the dark memory of time
where you let the sour juices fill your void with light-like tunes
the open road wandering in your cavities pale void garbage scene
the witches’ own swilling chord on the review of old emotions
at sentences flung like slag in the rotten sign at your lower folds
where the truth calls out and makes you bend again and again