Thomas Lowe Taylor -- AMERICA WHAT'S THAT .a rant

Anabasis
***************



Surely nothing kills us more swiftly or completely than insane
thoughts getting through a hole in the mind. [David Slabaugh]

Like a hole with no bottom
I never saw nothin
but the slat of passing
agronimations of the slit,
suck of the empty sign.

From roads on the highway of pun
litters of the dead peeling
nowhere from nothin,
and in the passing of seasons

the emptying of the dream
into its reasons.

//here you drivel into me
your useless shit
benigns into the tumor
of tomorrow\\

broken on the hinge of life


grey blue green flash of
the tube of light incognito
of the neighborhood's stance
& set of the broken mirror
into "what to do"

song to the freedom of passing,
here in the insufficient now
here in the suffering light...

Who are You to tell me tomorrow's
lying on the dust of my sons,
eating the shit of your flags
and yr teams of signing wasps

Now that the deal's done down
you grunt me the easy dick in
your hand again and again

Life to the strutting prow!
Your dying ship screaming
beyond the signs of our creation

Now in the fires of our own meat
we bear and beam toward the
vast nothing of our haste

leaving rope enough for the
laggers to hang onto
for awhile

Here is the light back home--
here is the fire in your heart
crying out renewal and love

and in the scabrous cannibal present
we dream together on the signing
of light between us

lining the hours and rising through
opening tones of renewal.....

...blah blah blah,
your sick fantasy bores me down
against the floor heaving,

a screw on the tight-lipped
plento of her scours and teasings,
roomed along empty hours,
another boom in your box
lined with flowers and blooming

No I never saw nothing but time
passing up yr butt like a pork sandwich

No name in the america of sensations
but a bore and a dime on the pennies
of what was left behind,
detritus of the plundered hone,
scarf of the lunky pintos
and their false alphabets;

Here is where we've lined up for soup
in the heartache of what the leased
memory of something fine

Here we have a commercial break
for the executioner's song
before tying up and shooting down
rapid to vapid the emptying of the
slut of inattention
her own corpse reduced to
rhyme and reason

...and i saw Amerixa suck the big toe
of plenty and spit out yak and fungo--
coalesced lungers on the frying pan,
oysters from the punk demento
in yr heart


So dump the looting goober on his
butt, a flinty poon her's own sabre
--this and no more in the action
of which we speak
of which we speak
now and no further

here's the door and no master
here's the way and no passage

denial in your sentences of doubt;
love in the arches of light beyond us

A lingo invested in its
own hopeless shame,
how can it success into light?
What whore can sign the lines of light
what son of loss deliver the
remains of the king into deliverance--
what emptiness can renew the light?

give me a chicken sandwich now

dress my colon in sentiment

forge the union of opposites with glue

Pierced tongue of the gypsy cunt
slates the dream into insignificance
leaving the dreamer in a trance
from which no one returns

hose of the scheming dunt
you please the face of the bitch
with your scheming front
leaving with the goods
leaving with the rest

beyond the stunted pane
beyond the flaunted wane

beyond yr fruited name
Armeskera, antinomial
of the new rapunto

hold and chain
rock and stain
enuf

I wake to find myself
in the dream


oystrvl 2.16-7.97