Issue 12 · 2009



Vagrant Spires


  by Paige H. Taggart






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)









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.









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.









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.









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.









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).









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.









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.









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.









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.









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


E · Poetry Journal