Thomas Lowe Taylor -- IN MUSTH

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Fallen markers collide, apart from decisions made, you are here in the midst of other wagons described from nothing, but solid among the terminals of who they are before you move, nothing is clear from them to us, the ministers of the soapbox movie and the eloquent satyrs closing in from all sides is simply too much.

Other moves too soon described are closer here than somewhere else, but call them down again in the central issues before the table are laid out, laid back and laid upon in the burning hours before anything is said too soon to move and too late to learn, he hears them calling back and forth against the tides again.

More pressing materials are kept in the outer foils from tides woven outer scales too soon and then against the roving manners they call out against your chest a wooden hand in gloved magnitude and don't be silly along the waving hands from shore to shore these attitudes are more or less overheard in a stiff mix.

This is it, and the slower hours are off the mark, to let them off too easily is more an insult than any lesson one might learn from, but capped with intensity and an attitude you don't soon forget; light in the heart's woe your own angles call out for more, and let her slip away to get to more important things.

This is your own calm beginning, back and forth you slip the angles from easier to more difficult angles of attack, and bear down with a consciousness that a bell is ringing: Another day is described by what was omitted from the other weeks' overdrive calculations are too soon left to decay into other mortals' ire.

There are other ways to move quickly between moments, the only others calling out are your own relatives clinging to reality, moved from within to expositions of doubt and love, called into play by the play itself as more than you might allow them to have in inner marks laid aside, and then culled from all that follows.

Or do you remember anything at all beyond the claim of light and dark to the intensities of your perception of the wind moving slowly through your city-scaped head, clinging to anything you might remember as between the real and the not-so-real; what else is there to say in the angles of what follows color to its airs.



This is the hour, and passing again too soon to make anything clear enough is the hour itself markered out along these waving ambers, fly-specked houses clear the deck from winches donating hours along the opening stretches of memory, of the one that got away and the long arms of darkness calling your name again, now.

Concluding elements are kept aside from boxier carts your yellow days too soon against the others they have met them singular terms for anything that keeps this clear and simple, you are here and kept from the others by a sinister plot to make you whole, and the hours are light between your lips, as words, as light.

Still, it moves between your own motives and what passes for light along the sighs, a movie still and slow which becomes another slight remark in the great chain of being who you are again, and still moving slow against your own sighs to speech, and cling to them as last and flow along a folded thigh again.

* * *

Moving lines remit. Scores are kept aside from memory, and the
outer terms become light. His hours weep between her eyes; a spot
is here and there, but left alone along the wavy lines of manufacture in retrograde description he hears them wailing and then leaves to meet the others in the darkening skies bereft.

At sudden, the hours recall your name to them as has and lean into the wind with your bones aching; there is no more booze to the linear attributes, but your own scalings are soon enough to hear what passes in the garden for another song rising from loud speakers to make the party become another empty day filled up.

You are here: Today is the name of the rest, and passion clings to her like the odor you carry with you in definition of spent time; or you hold grey hours against the marks and pleasures you have left aside for someone else to call yours or theirs or nobody in the light to air-out the motives, claimed or other.

This marks the spot where events take place in the memory of man and the history of the planet scaling forward in climates too numerous to be flat like a diction or removed like an unwelcome caller on the phone, to them discharged and skipped afloat the underwear is stiffened from too many times you crossed the draft.


Or hears them clutter forms in the moon's own disturbances too soon to have a name for anyone else to hear, but them as has, so let to the scaler moons your own rapt attentions have slipped into fathomic density the oiler sheep slings headier scoops toward red patterns the lesser of which has your face on it.

Or would them as clutter then sling and fold the tools of any day now the song the rest resting in your hand all done and ready for the freezer to be set up foreign antagonisms another day the longer scoops have this as a heavier loom to meet them angling in for the kill, bag in hand, net in hand, the scoop, hook, a drive.

The story is a deeper, more elemental description of the attitude of clouds moving too quickly under or in front of the screen, as attention declines to move beyond these definitions of lust and ankles twisted toward the loomer densities his own calculations are kept between you and me, the rest is another doom of light.

Set as mode, moved, outer, spin to center at control. The rest decides to move, term of, light of, the rest of resettlement in the mists of platform-delight, other terms for turning out into the cooler airs of what you have before you is still another document left too long in the air to be read at all, skimmed.

This to go, as the terms have for it another meaning too loose to be described, but laid out along the sidewalks of the city in some climate of otherness, the ringing in your ears deserves to be answered, but holding too closely to the tongue in hand is a bird's bush beneath your silent features marking the air along.

Foremost as thought is, another climate distinguishes itself between here and now; other terms are too silent to reveal their informative predispositions too quickly for feathers beneath the arms and legs of the bodies on the ground, fester and calm, and how they are aligned on axes from north to south and back again.

But here is the silent center of light which becalms your spirit from the beginning to the end and waits a long time between the hours to remove the angle of disturbation from beneath her coat on the ground, a cleaved surface, how you are clothed, the other times you wept aloud, and waiting too long to eat are many.

The hours go aloft and sudden. It is too soon to tell. It is also another poem left underfoot to stick to the heel of your shoe like old gum, and waiting in the closet, the whole family calls out for recognition and moodier hours for reflection on the whole game of that which has passed us by too soon and left.
But you'd still be this thing-of-the-earth, reeling forward with thoughts which occur nowhere else, but ravel at terminal discord, the open rafters smoked-out and leaned along the score, your own history is a book for itself, and leaving another room, too soon would be the declaration of defencelessness, an attribute, calm.

But you are still here in the solitude of your own repressions, and whomsoever seeks must find, although the reward is not always the crayon you imagined, and unforgiveness is still an attribution of the less-than-calm who forge these valleys in a likeness not before seen on the face of the earth, but not here.

This would also be an allowance for diction to do its thing, in among the lesser-known clients for indistinct markings, thigh to eye they hit the tongue action and leave her gasping on the floor like a fish out of water, it is too soon to tell whether this therapy will flesh out and remind us of original births here.

Would as ought, but heavier than nought, the markers collide and create patterns of effect too glib to be communicative, but none are less than perfect, and the alignments are as precise as you might imagine them to be, held too soon to be identified, but let alone in the classification of themselves, an air, a rock, a day.

And as you are this hesitation in the cosmic realm, you might also decide to stop too soon to finish what you were doing, if that is any inclination towards which the rest dictates in its own pressures to being, as that which is also new has somehow been prefigured in the anticipations which give rise to it.

Closer angles reveal that there is nothing to see. What you are is another angle worth repeating, although the playful aspect is something more or less infuriating to them as have it down, as against them as miss the boat and drool along too slow to know and too fast to get caught, the wringer of life, caught in it.

So you see, and miss the point, but too soon is not the point, and what is missed occurs also in its own time, to mark it, to let it fall where it may, to fold apart these terms we have for supposed release from servitude as an aspect of passing beyond, as what you see is less than perfect, but has songs to share.

This angle is too severe to identify anything but the text which has been omitted as a functional part of its meaning, and when you leave all that out, what's left is the bowl and not the soup. I'd ask them all to leave and count my change before catching the bus to the next town, elongated sentences gradually have meaning.
No, there is no beauty to it, only a persuasion to definition which is not particularly something to be seen, more or less a kind of identification which possesses the nature of the thing itself in its posturing and reoccurrences toward which all descend in the repetition of life itself, a security, a knell.

Beyond classification, there isn't much else to detail about the revenge aspect of what passes for the rule of life; and in between these markings, there aren't many left who remember what was there in the first place, more of an exercise to memory's accuracy than a delimitation of the perfect into its own time.

But hours go by and nothing is sent on to the more angular distances met at shores from the lesser days you left aside too long to mark then singular, profane, longer lines hear them solitary, forgotten remnants of the planet's party-time and hangover, the moving day when the furniture got left behind.

You, too, are here too soon to be reminded of the eloquence with which you left the arena and marched into the capitol barefoot, breasts exposed to sunlight, legs wrapped in the skins of animals, a movie camera went off to the left, heard some rumors, and eventually believed in the magic kingdom and Mr. Greenjeans.

Now there is nothing left to remember; at the verge and measure, there are no other marks to be made in the history of evenings, and whomsoever, as the saying goes, again, hunts without a guide, surely gets lost; having done so, the question arises, what to do, and sometimes it gets answered and sometimes it does not.

Now the hours release and turn, as outer names the rest do thrive or turn them outer claims have marked these terms "another" and culled outer coils the rest remove at term and furniture, his hours become the very airs you measure through and through to be the same, in five or six the lives have termed success or not.

But who you are is still here in the marks a firm or fashion, used in the finance of light to which all become, the rest is cleared without to be another light falling between your own eyes has the line fathomed at six and seven, you release the doves into her eyes the rest goes like this, and moves along again.

You are this hour termed a life beyond and threaded out to line the streets with gold as has, so let, and become the rest in between them in the mists of passion to which man is given, as has them linger into the fashion to which they all subscribe, underneath a character, there is another, lesser being.
And this holds, too, and hears them moving in between them less and less they are these lines becalmed fools release them in the airs you've left them in among, as grouped, as lights along the telescope made of radio waves hears the heaven's as light, and measures the developmental core the rest aside and clinging.

And as this is the hour you've become, here is the closure and rain of which we spoke: You are this hour in the lines left along the highway, and no cars revolve from left to right, the eastern distances are colored red and white, and who he is reminds you that nothing has passed this way for a long time.

But light would go like that, and pass on into more forgotten realms with the spread of night among your own countrymen left aside without pity or friendship, and let the words speak for themselves, as they do, and mark them further on than that, as has to let them in in the middle of the line, to go forward.

And this is the time to pause, waiting in the wind as her hair turns as resonance and terminal, the lighted globe which has as a name the furthering of the light, and lines which go outer are first claimed as the nature of one's own game in the field of action, he hears the claims and utters forward calms the day.

But the light of which you might remind has no outer coils, but lives in the realm from which the lesser terms are made, your own angles descending into the forward cabin, his terms made of light, and the construction a lighter play of plenty in these hours which pass into the darkness, makes of them something new.

But to disagree has no firm tallow in the mind's heart, and substance of the one becalms her stutter from the foment at the mouth, your own speech has claims to be beyond doubt in the formation of light, your own space lining the outer sphere without name or distance, calming the living hours with light.

And to passion in our midst, these realms have made us whole, in the spirit of our longing made into matter the names of which pass beyond them marking one and two to clear a day or two into the future, then cling forward with an intensity seen only in the books, on the books, on the rest or resting out, term and sign.

And as light would pass on into the realms of disaster from which there is no return, then the time would bend outward from more distanced angles, to become a focus of the one into the many, where you have it shiny and new, you have it mental and both, you have it before you as something which never came this way before.
Time is a line into the being of your own heart, beating as it does, and space, marked from the life you have, without design or value, and passes into the cosmic realm without trying to do so; time is the value of her eyes, and space is the light between figures on the table, drawn by a passage through another mind.

But to pass would be another day's easing into the spaceport, and having lunch with them, a conference call neglected on the screen, another line broken between here and all foreign cities, an agreement made between all parties in agreement, but denying all parties in disagreement, have these hours intense and sad.

Or heave them up along the dirt aside or outer, and heave them out into the darkness without waiting for a reply, the dirty scum have flipped the doorway onto its side, let the birds out, and gone to another planet with the goods, leaving only expectation and revenge as emotions for the remaining inhabitants to share.

From whole cloth is such a fabric made; diction and claim they dig into the foremost angles within your own terms made plain, but held out for another day or two to make its statistics into the food for thought which such a soup reveals in its nakedness, slipped between the hours like a message from someone else.

Or would you clear the decks in sudden term and claim, the hours made from something resembling the day you left town and then came back, all the farewells made phony by the indecision in your style; held aside from the easy glance of the others, you welded retreat into the advances that you made, and held fast for today.

And as this would be the end of something new, you might clear the decks of all that listens in the dark, holding onto the elevated calm of tomorrow's heroes without indication or respect, holding them at bay with the oddness of the terminal itself, and leaning forward with a benign word on your lips, waiting again.

But you hit the blocks without waiting for the gun. And hear the motives clear across town, spoke and calm, roof and gun, pie and sled they pair up unwilling to be left behind in the zoo of phrases, caged by infinity and willingness, defeated by respect and our own desire to continue, it is hopeless, this hope.

Or you'd clear the air without moving, giving first from the left and then from other distances too profound to enumerate: What begins in the heart continues outer, reeling and stuttering into belief or oblivion, but above all, her name is left on the inside of your hand, like a print, like a hand, or even like a name.
And another day would call out for release, for clearance, for another distinction from the profound, to be left to its own devices, to be left alone to catch the fine points of what's left to think about, you'd be the one to clear out and make the bed before you go to work, working all day, coming home, like that.

But the rest goes aside too easily, and you follow a rap like that, one thing after the other, piecing it all together in some stitch of mental acuity, a test to see whether you're paying attention or not, moving within your sphere of action, marking time and moving very, very slowly toward what was there before.

And a good summary would include all sorts of profundities abutting the more particular resonances of "an argument" toward which all progresses with the necessity of fate, becoming in the rhythms of its process a paradigm for attention so compelling that attention itself is changed in the manner of its style.

And so we say, "a style is also a behavior" and "not to confuse a thing with its manner" declaring adventure to be a prize and not a claim, and to include detachment in the lexicon of attributes to which attention pertains in its own quest for perfection.
Not a day passes without such longing in the heart.

Unpublished stanzas

Fallen markers collide, their substances unmet or turned without semblance or recall of outer foils turned again against the rest without any other terms for it or anything else remembers-out at his other signs re-enacted for something new to sail between the hours at something far worse than you imagined, as new, as told.

Liking, however, identified word-wise, on former gossip of light the rest rescuing older patterns of recall the closer angles out from lighter coils spun angle-like his farms and shatters still a wept solitude and any anger recoils the foam and sensation of his fingers firing up at coal and width, a smooth tongue sliding in.

At smooth, a further sail would claim inner forms to be alone within, but set far against the light turning one-on-one the rest is still here in the frame, clear color and the sign designed like this again, you are still here still, and resting today is like the rest and settling down to go the long run up the hill.

Set, sediment, claim the monitor his foolish whim foregone in the light conclusions bent, rapt and inert, his dross is still foil and charm to the auspicious occasion in the speaker driven into hearing by the charge you make against consciousness to be real, and hold on responsibly while the building shakes down, intense.

And still, as markers go, the rest resides herein and terminal, but set one against its' time to be anew the thing inside and made a stiller calm than you'd recognize, and still perhaps the newer markers made collide and part and calm all at the same time you are still this term for what is going down into these lights.

For this and that, you are here among them one time made of light into the substance that you are, and made again the moon and time of what this is is still a newer term for what was not said in the time you spent inside tense and claim, sentence and calm, the outer extremities described in simpler terms than this, and held.

Or at more open signs, there are some others to behold inside the moments of passion and longing, there are some signs to behold where someone passes into you keeping alive flame and song, there are passions too mute to be expressed, but which enlighten as they come closer, waiting to be made into thought and feeling.

Or are you this free, to stay aside and watch the passage of monuments become another person in the waving afterglow of flop and sign, the open door is also open, but you'd skip it out and slink singly there are the solitary hours stretched into color, or made into something allowing the remainder to have a place.

But less angular substances remind of collision and release, how spumes flatter forth into resigned particulars, the rest reside elsewhere in the passageways, or how you stir the broth determines the rest of the soup: Intense and real, he moves the days around the globe without uncertainty and without pausing.

Holding patterns, a loose patrimony of opposites, and clear internal manipulation of the codes is what reveals to the careful eye that something is amiss in the entire system of oppositions, if there is not release from this passive bondage, something will blow, making spinning moves through the crowd, sudden apparition.

You are this: Another moon clinging to its sky, or left aside from easier distances you'd call me in and out the same, a rafter
in its guises has no clearer realm than to call or move the same as what went before, and as you clear the decks with concise motives, the allowances are kept aside from lunging out again.



Play it off. These moving signs are clearer pools than light itself stuffing lips the creepier notes are slip and sing, at dusk, at more the scooped wedge cancels former tunes away at least and smoothing in to say, aloft, the doorways cluttered into something precise but went away too soon to be a dialogue.

You'd skill it, finished former and the lighter brights have the day too soon to call another name for what went on too long to be described here, but calls out, calling, here and there the same is met among them one after the other, and then falling off too easily to measure, you are how and thus, the moon, the rest.

He ships or motors on, the salient terms are "here" and "thus" at or after the markers have collide and smug to their densities, or at least have made the gesture toward cooperation; this is too quick and too swift to be measured, but the rest is stiff swill to clutch or gather, rescuing thereafter so-called somewhat said.

But slipped ahead, the slightly sheepish glance is revealed toward seamier attitudes, and the rescuing provinces are kept at bay like-minded individuals gathering in the same interest, as if the fields coded-out the more minor attractions having little to do with them, at least as far as it goes in more intense regions.

Getting high on it, too, is something of a delusion, but you cast your own scores as soon as you might remind them in the sooner realm, closer attributions of the one, the many and the same: He hears them one by one, as if arguments in the minor key were somehow left from former times to clear the air he left behind.

Or as far off as you could get, this is the nervous and disjunct individual you cleared the time and left again, his honor and the scrappier days were just left ahead to become what they might, while ignoring the unjustified margin against which moral doctrines were measured, for the songs were too complex to test.

A mark for the other, not held against them any longer than you'd heave it forward in intense positions measured, stopped, calculated and then ingrained without piety, the legions demeaned no more they call them up into the headier regions, but they are left along with their rice fields blooming sky blue signs among.

Heaved into the fray, they shut them one after the other into these kinds of things you remember mentioning to someone slowly, in a movie, or a dream; and how the manner of the motive was somewhat, uh, what you'd expect in there after about twenty-five pages, you find that there is the door and it is opening slowly.
A gloomier reticule is kept within earshot, or shot like glass to one side the easier realms do remit, as substance and the noose combine to excellent combination the looser claims to tell and do, but wreath them sullen response her eyes a rough red time in the airs around your head removed too easily, but left, but left.

This as spoon and tine, the wretched collar hangs its double line against the ringing line he keeps ahead of it too swift to calm them outer lines the rest decide to keep it up, there is a phrase hanging on the mark to ship it in to rest, to rest it single said the terms are met; swift, sure, sung the motion in the air is up.

At return, the sedgier wicks are skipped around, held, removed, and finally sent along into other processes, a random action from the realms of dusk, his eases slipped, formed, matter of the right stuff has it here and there the same as motives left aside for them to say one or the other will do just fine, and wait.

A great potential slipped in among them one after the other has it quick to say, quick to stay and the rest resting-out after a hard day at the wraiths your own line send descending calm despair your heart reeling out from all of it too soon to smooth her eyes have the glow of fate into your own sensations made.

As this is the reakier realm, you hold it at bay your harbors closed to all others, but met in the open hours as they hold it open for you to say this is the good life and I'll make it up on my own the days is such that you know nobody every laid a hand on me, just like that for democracy in action is being left alone.

I'd watch it say "what for" but mark the rest another clue to have held on so long only to let go would be a little frustrating but kept among them deciding to stay but not knowing exactly the why or how of it is still a new experience to let them in on a great secret is just to stay around and let it fly alone along.

That's the handle on your sides too smooth to clear the decks for action is still a smooth line on the saddle from too many markers in the air a truth to hold onto is a line among others, waiting to see and hoping for a vision to cull you forward into the light being bent into new shapes by the clearer molds alone among.

The staler regions are secretive allowances whom you gift their sailings too clear to wave against the rooms a slight substance dangling before the eye you met them one after the other on quiet afternoons and under trees kept from tears and fears by the right hand on your shoulder shooting from the lip and not seeing.
Mate and sign these frailer terms have kept them one to the other, a plaugier streak is held in contempt by them as has to them as let to the forward sides met at calm and signed into deed by the weepier solitudes she waves them singly or fashion, the slow cadence of the piano makes you think about light, or song.

The wheat calling down wave upon wave under the wind hanging at the eye you call it a dawn of seed, or a flowing time of habitude, and the light waves watery columns in the light of her eye the metaphor grown of process a lighter day would allow you all the food you want, and then some, to clear it up too soon.

And that is the day you went too far, scheming for yourself and no forgiveness for the others; no, you have to stop, have to become human and join the flogging squad in the anteroom, at teacups in their swollen tongues fairing up the inner sleep without sensation for the motives for their crimes against light.

Like this, a smoother line among rocky shapes would call you a delightful find, a smoother guide than others had, a reference point for what came before and after; and that design is still a kind of motive for being is not the same as giving up and being silent, is not the same as waiting in the wings for the light.

To change. That is the question you pose momentarily between words the skill and silence too much to contemplate, the line too long between light and dark, and still you call the day your own, caring too little for them as if to let them linger in their own sweat, sailing smooth lines from life to death without pity.

These are their own lines left lingering at the edges of the sea.
How you met them wailing one distraught sentence is kept at least this far from the rest of the day you swept aside all doubt and came into this overt resonance the day after the night before you kept it in too long to cover the earth, painted, smoothed after.

Ore this shaft and palm, his angle smoothed at the ceiling fan and substance the glue of white and opaque hanging-from-the-lip is the name she gives to it and makes protein a dinner of the throat-like tunnel of love up-ended right up and kept from the rest by release or qualm, holy city of light, her name, as here.

The unsettled life is worth unexamining. You'd make it one time and then keep the rest for something new, left along too long is this air we breath up and down the silent tongue reams her out too long to rush ahead and singing, long and short of it is cut from, delivered-out and made again, you are a rough edge ringing.
The fives rest, rescuing doubt from the followers has them by the throat releasing song from its destiny, or has you hanging on every word, the same as saying one thing after the other is always a surprise, but leaving out the rest in between is still a trick too easy to leave alone for the commericals, right here.

This passed, too, and met them hanging one in another's eye, and what told it to scrape along was the totality of the rest as you might perceive it, alone and slowly turning, or somewhat among the others in their densities: The formula became alone along among to those who knew him, singular moving substance of others.

Therein terminal of discord, you do have this heaviness between your eyes, there is a spot of sensation, result of having two eyes, I guess, but nonetheless a stereo nutrition station, for the focal point of reference for the two halves of the brain, an illusory centerpoint painted with an eye spot of blue and gold.

A falling offspring of doubt, released cloudlike into something new and unfamiliar, however you meant it to become another newer daylike formation in the mountainscape of your mind, unmapped territory has this familiarity to it that cannot be ignored, and as nothing does not communicate so too the rest falls into place.

Here, you must wait along the line to become some other, resting in place and watching the dayglow of less intense monuments returning from other destinies to their rightful place in the brain, and as you are drawn from one side to the other, there does the alliance make known that you are coming along again.

And here, the more singular instances of light are reminded of the hours passing slowly making more of the rest than of what follows into the air no meeting but the more released doctrines of action which polish out the motives of those who follow into the railer terms made whole again in color and time removed.

Or you'd make them wait for the answers until there are some to tell you how the rest rescues them from here to there making no signs for the rest to follow out and hold the landscape down again you tell them one by one that there are no others inside the tense and fragile substances which make them into light.

Still, these hours are longer than measurement, still contained by what has come between and left them still along the side, contraband and scheme denied, the flower falling still at markers still collide and seem to be another day falling through too fast to become anything else but what is passing through you inside.
As here and thus, the markers do remind of red and gold, the sense and pattern of what follows in the mind is an indication of the remainder of the followers holding firm to the sign throughout the loom and plain they fall forward pattern and sign the open door is also made of the light you met inside and held.

And still they fall too soon to become anything else the names of which have passed throughout the day to hold and move them inside the day is still soon enough to be the space and mark you held them slow aside the markers waving through color and time to be these things of the heart's own smooth and time, you are, thus.

Past this cool reminder you have angles staid and foreign left along the colored rocks without indication or fault they rely too swift another calm willow bends into something leased from the hours by them as have the night is blind to say throughout the same way moving through these lines as slow along the rest again.

Would make another substance out of it to become something new again, and waiting along the way is not something you do every day but hold out from the specifics of what you are the same day every other time is met in blue or red edges kept apart by the same design which is made of this hour the waves are turning in.

Less reclusive terms are made of this air against the waves met again from something to this hour made again to do a bidden thing is held apart from them as seem to see the lines along the way you held it still too long to be these things again and wait against the hours met unwilling tides are kept again this way.