Il Raspitunate

Blows him down.  Bare rap of undisturbed elements.  That's how they
leave 'em gasping for air the gill slits flapping like oldman gums.
That'd been just a little too much, not made pertinent but slipped and
gabbled a dusky definito was the loot of the day.  Spent.

Still, I'd blown a carcass getting here.  Afforded flutes and bennies.
Yet the purple strain strained at her gussets in floppier dorks made
alert to what's not unspoke in the rattle of now and then, still a
hooper destiny in the works for all youse guys hanging in the winds.

It'd narratived forward like a moot snoot.  This was the spanker dude,
still in his forties but a narrow set of jeans leaning against the bed.
Not too much to smooth out long.  A new grammar to the light lingo poled
aside and let go like a speech that fails to move.

"What'd I say" you said.  Or sang.  Or shouted back across the denizens
of the plank where a cool wind leaves you sagging inward a shout spun on
your lips silent and blue where the Roman's windows leans the sagging of
your skin a lingering home of parts.
 

Copyright 1999, Thomas Lowe Taylor
 
Thomas Lowe Taylor is a writer, painter and photographer, living on the Washington Coast.  Recent work includes a Chapbook, Texts of Anabasis,  (with photographs), a full-length memoir, White Light: The Lost  Vision of Montana, by Tom Eagle, online at www.willapabay.org/~anabasis, eight poems in Sand Script, North Coast Writers, Long Beach WA, and in numerous other journals.