Thomas Lowe Taylor -- Forester snap, the new, and what, uh, remains

***************


Forester snap, the new,
and what, uh, remains
Thomas Lowe Taylor

I

s’loaded and embarked, like an out
then, removed, what’d been too long

the there in among extra stuff, like
too much of not enough

I’d’d spud, nor plumer at her musk,
nor rounded-out the offal tuner wherein

Nor stranded from the arching airs
what’s breath to the moon’s own distur


Them as at, the toner plew and stern, a
foam or distant cousin who’d had stuff

Then narratived into longer choats the
elemental and outer, the husks aren’t ang

-nation; of pluded hust, and cent’or marks
the union long of two hearts beat at one, then

The rusker noted your distant aims are hoots
to routes and answers in time’s moot holds.

Periods of quiescence among native louts,
their tool not(e) or foreign symbols, too.

What’s expense, a shame of waste? He’d
spent the last hours alone, fomenter calm

of and remains, here’s too far along, now
and I’d been there, to, too long yr hot breath


Abandoned as we are at the end of the year.
Nor remains a future to be seen as yet, no.

Yrs are the open hours, singing in emptiness,
and leaving the others to, uh, strange devices

and ovened out, outer, her eyes benign, submit
my dick removed and hand, hung, about, room

This was spencer, not remote, but spinners agile
these frozen quarters were not done alone no more


the revolution of what the fuck. of what’s, of duh
had, as day, husk, remove, calm, fonts foment death’s

no rembered passed; hat heaves asided, her juice
and the others, chattering to no-time stroke-ings.

At chastened harts a dreaded color, bluish but not
answered thrusts dayed out history in between love’s

knots and distant collars, and therein rested a caster
strengthened repetition, music hums yr dick & center.

Lates. Clouded triangles too skied out to matter, aflame
to light’s own remedies, yr heart belittled from within

answering tides their own replete substances wander out
and cling no mates have elided time’s recall and dink.

Yours to the outer edge, language restored to primacy
from self effacing words strung out on jealous temerity

from emptiness withdrawn by sheer force of ignoring the
motherfucks too pudded-out on reflection to matter at all.

Hank. New shore unremittant strophe of tragic disarray
here at the end of time. Here at the end of time. Here at

II

Some what’s tranced outer scores have at their mercy and song a newer layers have been told along to gain outer scales nor trance itself the latent scam of what’d been described before in sense or outer to the latent coils in within itself where they were laying out the calm and descending from Star Trek’d overt sensations into the familiarity of the specifics themselves, where word-wrap went too far along to matter in the later parts of what was actually falling apart among the ambitions left behind were the ones you wanted to have at all and in remiss her suffering, too, was a signpost left along the way that you were no longer alone in the sputum of life’s hedgerows without a beer to hang onto you were the highway itself in bowls packed tight with green permissions and fired from above in your own longing to leave your body in favor of higher estates where the grass uh huh is greener on the other side of what you might imagine to yourself that the layers within consciousness themselves are neither salamanders nor truths or insights but molecular bushwa in the hung far low restaurant where the squid diminish daily, tentacled spores left on the tankside at your heart behove no lesser arts would distinguish love from its outer in claim and less attentive surprises have the right to raise you above your heart pounding on the door.

III

I saw her masturbating in the doorway
and in the back seat of North Dakota
Where red-robed buskins were the stroke inside
and you left me panting for more.

Evening in my arms and watches
Hard at the stirring edge, you are.
Moto-plenitude. arc, form, string stirring land

IV

yod’d plud; hark no spinster, worded-out on luck
but love’s complacenta yurts them heavy in between.

The cold thrust of his, uh, logic. Arising new from without
within the heat of life itself beckoning in trust your fallow

hearts and flowers were dislodged ants marching a hero
The overt of this. Late. Hank. The moon is now approach

-ing from the west. Love’s anchor in the realm of the undivided
holds them at the edge of the continent, waiting to leap off.

We’re in the heat, now, an acknowledged hummingbird
speaks to me inside time, inside the waterfall, here at the


This spark internal flows upward signing transposed
hours to a more remote man in his looms of pleasure

Then leaves them unannounced toward futures spent.
This is the hour of which we spoke, no pun about it.

And the hour is calm, the forces arrayed around you on the table
like lice on a fur coat. Here are the loaners in your midst, and the
hours welcome; you have spent ahead and left a mark unattended
in the remiss welcome what’s spent no doubt leads afar and
makes the time pass willingly, and therein a blot or fathom.

It is less indecisive to lead than to do nothing and more
intense to follow than to do anything, and that’s the rub, you
wish, and rub at the doorway flung aside no hooter in yr mouth.
This is the pollen jam; you’d plodded cud and patter, or forded
hours at the spoil, room, the plus, what’d center’d out, remote.

Au 8.95