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Stephanie Taylor

when he shoves-off where does he scar?
Sure in his skull goes sense–
ravines stir.

A plan’s straight thread
(above a sham)
still did stay–
halve string oblong–
the frail hex of a glib rush.

A thin mood squawks as it falls,
(a sound to cry)

Men, we love prayers.
Thus far, more dull grow dents forseen–
her grand great dread.
A day damned till did.

Calves sing along trecks,
jib, crush snails, pin food upon rocks–
small brothers drowned– why?

Does debris dare fuss–
Star upon the floor–
In its null, bent, low careen, whir-spanned trail,
Its shreaded gate?
“I am a spill! Skid away!”,
clinging to a lush frail fib as it wrecks along?
It tries.

Ten doves and three bears
Plus four far gulls
a doe’s scent– fourteen cur bland.
Eight dead bam killed.
A grey squid stings along.
A thrush of quail pecks.
Twin spry crude hawks maul, smother and pound.

Then glee there (thus jars more),
culled, though between fur:
The weight of red land.
Rams on the hill (once they hid),
blush, spin a tale as they chew–
small flocks– brothers abound spry.

Are burns strength? Most crack, are teched.
“Cables shock!” she cried flinging a strap clad in wool.
Slow roles in chains froth, stop and flub louse,
smote and oared–– the birth of a grudge.

Banned skin wishes for a fine comb, fur of a strong brute.
“Tar and ferns!” boasts the track.
Wretched fables block keys and guides,
sting and slap like a mad bull.

Crows and moles, vain moths flop.
A shrub, a mouse– gloating and bored.
A firth of trudgery– sand pins fish and brine,
foams and whirs like a tong on a lute.
Scarred and durned, ghosts cackle and retch in gable and clock; tree and tide–
The map of bad is full.

Throw coal in the rain!
(a sloth’s sop).
Scrub the house and goat with poured mirth.
Nudge the sand thin and dish the swine.

The gnomes were wrong to shoot the star that burned the coast,
smacking and etching the tables and docks.
A tree’s pride stings its sap, sad and full.
Show a whole brain’s broth and crops.

In a tub, douse oates and gourds– earth’s sludge, a hand to spin the line,
home of a spur’s song and fruit.
A jar from what is churned in the oast–
wrack of vetch and sable, rocks and fleas, dried to wring–
traps of crabs and gulls.

Mow and troll the plain– chop the stubs and grouse.
Coat the chord in a berth of mud’s blue tint.
Shine chrome for the long mute spar.

Moss can dwell in this sun.
And them– spore, rare fleas, specks.
A stem soars where glib geese peck the floor’s hair.
There– a tree from flecks–
a pair of three.
Bran to sell or store.
above, air.
A bore upon hay at the fair.

“Neigh!” a corpse pared!
Nay, a hare’s core, nor a mare gray.
He swore as heir he’s stay.
An ere of yore,
a fare’s pore glares
and flares as its wares wear.

A mission, a way across.
A nun, a gem, a door– a key’s prayer and flex.
A day, well, four, staring at thee–
“stay for pear!” or yell for tea (a tray).
Pray for a bell or a chair– a sleigh or knell.

A chore or dare may bore,
a care may fray, none more shared.

Fibs wish for guns.
They toss plans to tell and instead hiss.
Then fell, missed and spun.
A hem tore.
Lost and ran, quelled and shun
again flees vex crib.

A bib for the dish with which sons play.
Sauce from the pan smells.

Contrition strays from dross’ clan and dell and, done, it snores and swears,
treks a nib’s ray– glosses and fans cells as it roars and tears
and upon its sea, wrecks.
The swish of the jib weighs a ton.
Its ribs, they span the tun’s swell and shore.
A deck of clay in hands to gell and gore.
A layer be flayed, a shell poured.
A scare to see, a fish to bray.

A knee which bares the hex may, in the end, sway.
“Only a lea upon the bay!”, the poor air pleas.
an oar’s erred squib sprays a sore bear, a jay’s neck and bent wing,

a prey’s spree tends to cling.

Mend and sling.

Who thought this?

‘turbed he twines, irked
and plops on the floor as though he flew
he sought his verb, his she.

The vine which lurks before it hops,
the spore which has to grow– grew
though squat and priss.

To curb the fleas,
to tine at murk, slop and gore
like a sow he chews
naught to miss–
knee nor spine.
Jerks in drops pour.

So: dew,
dots like Swiss cheese
a line with quirks which show a few– fraught.
See the swine smirk as he knocks on the door.

His skin knows he’s stuck,
he runs to the zoo
to the realms of cats who shall purr from trees
a clan of skulls in cubes of tin in a row
muck: a tun, a slew.
The Elms that stur, also plea.

A man is dull
from gin and too much snow
and struck with a gun.

Wherein, dim did plait his springs,
his stare sees nay,
his roar of gong blurs to yelps–

What salve’s scent for the spleen?
Realms of the skin and limbs skid on slate
and sting–
a tear and then three–
grey corpse.

Strong were men– him– now rid,
his weight in a sling ne’er to be.
A day of yore– prongs which err and then lie–
halve spent and mean.
The wims of kin–
grim grid of freight clings to air and sea–
lay as if poured wrong– slurred.

A sigh for the gent who has been.

to trod on fern
hereof– a hearse
yore: grey and done
A broad urn: glove and purse
Wore nay– spun.
Prod and clawed– burned dumb.

Nurse on floor, flayed, stunned.
Sod churned– of worse for spores–
Lay in the sun.

To nod, to turn, to shove–
curse tore, frayed– Run!
Too flawed to learn– above a terse roar brayed
gun shod stern boar.
May one pawed yearn for none-a-fraud.

Few moor rays to hull,
‘bove, the pulse, it wends.
Starship Nummer 10, Seite 97