Thomas Lowe Taylor -- DENUDO ESPLANADO

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Denudo Esplanado, what was mentioned as a long trail winding down into nothingness, was still a featured romp. Healded pins were torped out into the flagellant wilderness, but still it held. Nay a story here, but held and firm was where it went further than not, but still held ahead into the air, askance and remoter. Fielded here within sentenced stuff, he wore the light trance willingly, and held onto her with uncommon worth. The light penetranto was still ahead and gloom, but the city lay far below, into light dotted spins of of somewhere else, that was what it seemed to seeming eyes that there was nothing, nothing really apparent about it. Nor they pressured on within stilts or unforeign hours crept and willing. This was the handsome doubt, and they scattered wherein to calm the hours again. The random cabs were still hinging out and still. Lute heard the snarter and belled.

"Nor a fortune, nor a doubt, this'll do tomorrow," he yielded her with sense, with smell and fortune. There was a plinner out there tombed at skirt, but the lamer door might again simmer. She held:

"Ahan wha's deal'd not skin nor thigh, but your planking yink in the metal of this theism, eh?" and gave a slighter smiling pool.

"Thas," he stroked.

"Nay a punter, nay a boon," she swept again. Where'd flut.

These meant; at skanner, this'll due the mounter wanting with his own dunts, pining out other hours than you'd met again. Hoped. But the honor done was too far still to mention at hours penned and within. This was the hanker dude, and another masker was still ahead again. Not a plenty, but less. And wherein spins, so too the yeller peals, not skin, but the slipping pin laid within chants, within pooler musks, naying pins and doubt. Lates.

I'd howder'd skin, yelling down sunken rites the later scores her own to lay within me. But I'd been therein and wasked her funk and wassal, down again and not, nostril formed, the lanker dude his own arsenal of rubber. This'd been done. Rank and lyle.

There'd been opscar, nated funts with their own loops and spasms; this'd also been doubt itself in fathomic disguise, latent and faul. Hope's the niotic fask, flidden into latening marks and spunk--lude the dome, marks asramic desire plinted nosko barneal loaf'd nay dude, a homer fonnicle sporested nay far nay pinned and scasm'd nock a dune hean pento it's asker. Noaf. How'd plus nor anker deneal to former langering isks. He'd spored again, tooling out the total due and then some, but hankering her darts and spams again and again, tethering sensate plusks into the handle and handing, out out out; that the due and folded. Hanks.

Totaled out was here, too, a fathom against winding hours and fortunes doubted like sin or plenty, either too few or not at all, fucks and doubt together like touching, but without its glow. She'd been too far along again, douched like lighted hanks, marking your heart away and faster, lighted within and yanking, but held and firm was the hour ahead, knocking against signs the yarder in his hold, scam and dust, latening fawns the hours pool ahead. Nax. Nay a pinto and schemer dude, fluckser plenty and panting dream a dusky hour latening out from where you'd Went, man, Went. The moto tonic, rumbling motor of things, it want spandle and foamed again. Ludic consciousnoidal suntd things more, fondle and pump. They'd been out too long to formit, and skanked again ahead plenty more you'd love to see See it hopping out ahead of your own deal, dead pin looping the statesman bending history out of out of context content to die unknown unknowing hours the retrieval of time from its obstinate domain narks you homer scheming against the wind

the suitors at the gate

Sharp stars fluting conc and blame, hers is the hour of remiss and calm, floating now hours the dreamer in mists of chance are not yelling within nor faster hours the denial of makes the wind. I'd hoarded knots butt held and firm your wind making me blush now hours later the floods of sensation are not unmade beds aglow with harks and plenty, yours nosko the bold bargaining into the last glow of mutiny.

I'd push this goner too, not yeilding anyone butter clams the moves made pressure in the gaming tone of light itself beckoning from afar the wooden statue glowing from within, do you hear? They'd been out and stayed staid or not knotting out the outer from the lates. Ham. The blood statue bending in your hand, leading you down the bellrose and palm, noted lanks the beater moon. Form a theocratic essence, not anything more than that, you'd know when to stop and say hello, noting the color of the arc or not. Hold belittle into the lengthening tides not swept nor handled but the latent print upon your heart folding hours creeping now down the flood and calm you've held too far onto the morning lines are seeping down and away, fathom of heat, our own'd destiny lingering done

Dumb drummed drummer done. The lake went dry again, but flower power eruptive domain the essent due longer fingers in eye-holder, the line, dove, gank-no-due, the father again peeling dusks. Harf. Nay diddle but pin, unspeakable is, but then. Your's in the pluded hour, yours in the marking pen; yours not eaker din, not fathomed at all, the later man went denoted fun but hoarded funk and power, no share to let, no teacher met doom and spasm. The luck to save but not the kindness to hold. Me. In the eye of dean, you are no muck to say the latest din, but spool me down against the tidal lucks, leaks sucks. No more doubters permitando nay husker due. Lateral spin suck outer. Node to doubter, his, lats her coming in and stay, the day.
But went was a sucker done. The missle, lengthening tides with holding patterns the dome, her light, the stronger sense not in communicado but immediate sensations not with holding mark the magic innuendo its own remiss and plane. This's the muter due, and in print peninsula media res, the lunkering dune, within him melting holds her hands and dresses, flower to the spinning dime, flavor to the wagging tongue. Twinning fish denoted lingering moons well spent in their own duplication a factor in rumination, but senates and these lankers cars to the frenzied dormer looking down a window down to look down the streeted foal and charge, nay pinter tiny dudes their own waddle made pain or outer, was the next day, the next way, whatever

You'd been a shape-shifter, too. In the dream of my own hollow, I, too, fell short. Figure that. Not something said or even imagined, evening and doubt, the setting of the sun into and within the ocean itself blinking the sunny line of what it is, emotion and pain in the setting of the sun's own destiny makes within presence a symptom and a doubt, but lengthening into the sensation of what is lighted not now but within the presence of something new not spinning nor shuttered hears her deep within me singing daily now and again the belief in other voices room me down the history of something starting up again would be the lighter hours reminding of the song again is on your lips whoever you are

Listen. Nukes the homer skin, or are you plenty? This was holder and foam, nay nuker skunk'd shed within arcs the smaller potions melting in your cannister like a buttered realm reeling sense of what had been there before anything else was not or noted, this at the other hour, and having to read this, having to wait out on the front porch with the big fat snowflakes relaxing down onto your shoulders, an icy patch underfoot, like, I've not seen you before and if anyone asks, I don't know, and gave me the check

That would risk due. Hold the open seas within your grasp and melt with me. No movie in the heart but willing terms are made again, sport and central. In control would have been smarter than the other sides, but the revelations out of control were not necessarily present, don't not know nothing. So the demeanor of the smart was also a factor, not releasing the negative into its proper syntax, as dumb or something. The easter answer was also a part of the innuendo, nor in smoothing out the remainder, here you'd deny the specificity of the utterance and the almost certain knowledge that there was nothing to say that made any particular difference. To anyone.

So here'd you waited not so much in surprise as exhaustion; for in arrival there was also release, an emptying of promise and pattern which were insular but also something exhilarant, proposal to the unknown substants there you have it an example from the outer deal, a punker spunt shielded by repose from its opposite calm in the heart made plain, made new, made again.
Shiplap stupor. Heart a spinning muscle yakking details of the blood spasm hours after removal, bypassed, you might say, but nonetheless love's monitor in the body, ecstatic ring of moon flesh from the locale of emotion itself. You're baked. Sappy leaks the motor due. Hears your beating brain the loader in our midst. Steals the final doorway from the other side and leaves you standing in your own shit. Or simple accommodation into and within light breaking from your nostrils, a flamant persona louding spunker dudes their own heat, examplar of the sun-spot on your romantic skin, but then, lets, lets the doorway sample something emptying or profunct, but Let nonetheless, "let" by letters, uh, one at a time. The yanker on his pud.

Escobar Denudo--hip ay center sent 'er sending out--as this was. I'd ben ther dun tht. Or so you say, so you irrelevant the mater die eliason naming anthropomorphic suits the pyramidal deprivation, uh, not so far found to have left anything intelligible so why not fucking burn it, the libraries, what's left will have to have been encoded like sex jeans, uh, genes, in your jeans, that is, what dries almost stuck to the....

No doubt its's reigner punk stands at the side of the tent. His is the open-faced factotum resisting a rest. Your own story, then, buried behind voice and sign, it is a murmuring in the dusk which retains your own attentive desperation, leading you not so much astray as askance, detail, tangent to line. That is. Nor mentor nudo afar nor dune. Applis.

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Thus formed, what'd denoted died; lesser plumage entire ritual flask shape-shifter in the cultural elan, as they say, of the fucking shit. So far, no problem. It's in the detente of the millennial gloom your own heart beats in solitary climactitude, aha, and then goes on with it. Slight ache of the heart follows erotic (as in solitary) half-life sensation descriptors elude the pathway as love art act not schematic necessarily, though elude is not quite the proper word, still a lingering sensation incomplete as it is it is the character of sensation itself, that is, to have half-life ghost sensatios wither off after, say, each word in a poem or each yank of the hank. Whatever.

So the year itself in isolation from all the others is not so not Quite so proprietary, nor disappointing, but developed entire from what is spoke, said, perhaps, but not simply, uh, left alone with itself en retard, you'd say, another movie matter splinted from within the motor in hour heads linking-out answers stuttering plain and simple what is said is not no denial nor less than just what it means to say is what it says, duh.
Nick Husker, slimmer than most, yellowed at the end of the day, martini in his whiskers, a solid meal behind him, heh, and you know who kneeling at his midst. "Salamander" Salad wooed the tempo of the weskit, dreaming out loud of other ways to do it. Still the sentry gleamed and smiled continuously, her hips swaying to the eastern sentiment in the room, carousal and phantom jets of light streaming from the moon. It was fuller outside than not. And that's the way it is. Nor gloom nor transfer nor pungent flot. String the stripper pale pole rising. Nick the husker in his but. Spinnet, shorter wax, the rest, you know the drill, as in "drilled out". Hold on foxation, remindo entire of the seeming set. This'ld poo on the face of it and you know what comes of that--no good, I can tell you. Foam the reliking boot, your own fancy no doubt, but recalled from where the nether regions, boots in the hallway, the mentor on his knees before you, no, it is wrong, it is callous, it is calling out....

So What in the where of nothing at all, eh? So Fucking What. But internal residues of good will half a world away they are realizing in you the sensations of hope or at least of possibility in a situation which really merits none of that. So it is a bit like remembering, how you are left in the mists of your life suddenly left alone, perhaps, or not, which is better or worse but at least thinking you might have made the wrong turn wronger than than not, those naughty nots, er, knots. In the history of sinking feelings, you are a pothole. A curled edge without stain. A formation of louts withering in the rain; a particle of lisp. Sectionally elicit.

Here's a rondo. Natter dude, the plinth of rondo, spake at seminar nay plinty, but held and firm intent wast no further here than not. They'ld exploded in time a novel form of extending the conscious moment into within the cosmic riddle of nothing forming into something, an evolution violation of the rule of form coming something from something and then decaying into nothing, duh, then Then renewing into something from nothing emerging as it were from the inchoate and the dark it comes yes it does.

Where'd worsted salad, no? Like, uh, "Nice Braunschweiger you're wearing" out. Old footwear on the sidewalk, waiting to be retreaded. I will walk again. But then you know when you've been there, that you've been there; similarly, when you are "doing the work" you are aware of that and it is right, to me, that you think so, otherwise, there is no "work" taking place, only experiencing. The sensate. Scenario and room, whichever takes place first, in the realm of the remembered, who you are, or at least Were in the hours when you confronted your self, at least That time. So what holds into the more morning hours, mourning maybe, depends on who you are at that moment, it is the same story yellowing on your teeth.

If confrontable, yaddle, the remainder's evolent strain, how you are known, what partitions fall away, the knowledge of what has passed against the time, your very skin linguistic and permanent