Vagrant Spires
by Paige H. Taggart
1.
Sensor the episteme ruins;
needless to say, you see
the ill of the el, the most
defined spoiled sign bell.
Typecast, every time one shifts
weather he or she; the under
posed vital as your steeple
makes a canon go blame it
on the Turkish tenant.
The a-priori
She emailed today from
Nicosia about her radio
target protocol
(aix, I’m in danger)
2.
She’s begun a surged maple leaf;
sure to cruise with the critical
mass meets boxer down
the tundra of join performance vagrants.
It’s all a convenient terrain
of the nomad. You see it’s
begun to shift in space from
the letter u to me and later
I find be. Still ebbed in
quarry a larger she.
Escape this
northern pink continent
Precisely disconnected from the farmland.
3.
A ton of tundra’s another attendre.
Stay hip to the heroine of
the next quail tail attached to no
no rail I nail in the hole to hold
plastic--–––––– break down melt:
Glass is through her eyes!
Old problems are lies.
Clearly, I don’t function out of the same respectable.
I feel stiffened by attendre.
4.
You tree this kind of mild-epidemic;
it’s the land highway; go run
over vacant signs given that
we don’t compose French
in the same manner as the
American slaughtered British
to cold slang pronounced
variants. The bleak Pilgrim
distilled his watery tongue.
Cockney vagrants a sour puss.
5.
You see I rival the rheumatoid;
my mom’s got thermal infatuation
I type still frothy letters,
I don’t know why I’m alert
they call it a stigma in my
eye. The el of the blink-athon.
We should have known over
tea that the brain
which hasn’t reached its maximum
still functions (holds holes)
according to males.
There are fashions and factions all drunk.
6.
Piano note has become
a bridge in the back of a trochaic throat,
spindles on a wheel lexicon. Human sitar—
the vagrant hostile youth! I
excommunicate your heightened
troche from chaotic verse. Potholes
in the ground only crumble at liver discharge.
Spliced alcoholic patterns in reverse
on the old- Dr’s coat tail.
I nail again. The hole in the wall is falling through,
crumble shifts on my bed, a pile,
it’s white over this green,
each crumble makes the nail fall harder on it’s mess.
All in high-fashion (lumberjack too).
7.
Spoiled by spell and whimpered
by wiped tired hedge of clause, lazy verse.
These piles of papers are maps
I see you’ve seen the doctor
too many times, for laws purpose
I inject your education.
Need each school see my shot records
measles, mumps and boobs?
This hysteria bleeding into my poised veins,
my poised negotiated voice
and each timber falls. I’m a rookie.
8.
My poised lessons came from my father,
well-versed on the piano,
his syntax breeds hysterics.
My friends laugh at tiers of
purple Brazilian wood.
Today, replaced playboys
with twelve steps.
I wish I still owned an incubator.
9.
Crust files under nails,
click patterns on keyboard,
run warm-ups across ebony keys.
Wood made my insides all
purple. I blow purple onto
white Kleenex, dust my
purple knees off.
Spoke in the vilest
el manner purple tongue
guitar. Fender bought my
shoes and still pays
off my education stickers.
10.
The addict is
in his trailer confectioners tram;
likely, on the path of retaliation
and bolder semantics. Frost as free
diarist to bleach shadow box.
See every e tied to tree synthetically:
leaf of the leaflet of a blessed diarist;
hopefully, find reward in an envelope.
Trace blank all over this blank.
You see it’s beginning to look
a little like Christmas. Joyeux noel,
it’s the confuse of the spell, the
French know know different than I.
11.
You see shadow boxers barely
tusk heaven and today, the el of the mail
was spoiled by Nicosia. She sends
me no congrats, and I vulgar
in her spewed up mail-disconnect.
We retrieve lines and become sisters
with out the same DNA,
it somehow doesn’t matter
I have two brothers. She no longer
punctures my joy balloon.
We celebrate through copper
buzz wires. It’s fatly spilled
expands hyper-pigmentation;
we spoil in our drawers,
it’s sour all over the patch.
Patch land, turn my el sideways.
Paige H. Taggart lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She holds an MFA in poetry from the New School and a BA in Visual Studies from California College of the Arts. She has an e-chap called Won’t Be a Girl (Scantilly Clad Press). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming at La Petite Zine, BlazeVox, Elimae, EOAGH, Sawbuck, and Eleven Eleven. You can listen to her reading at Weird Deer.
