We took a broken thought and turned it to gold. Why. The boy, with his head held under a towel telling. His head held by another. If one fixes another breaks. We shouldn’t be writing this, we’re looking now. Keep going. No. The towel sickens and breaths. We hold you down. Don’t you see.
-M. Taggart
Copyright 2017
At the bottom of the clock Lurked the mouth who spoke too much. the boy watched unwillingly, while the angle of time twitched for more. And there he stood. alone. Waiting for the top of the clock. -The brook wasn’t too deep. Not really. when he stepped in it was nice and cool around his ankles.
-M. Taggart
The toilet needs to be cleaned. Try one more time. Behind the seat. The odor sets in. The boy wipes his nose with dirty hands. He wonders when he’ll be able to go outside. Flogged thinking takes place of truth. The boy scrubs and views his life without reason. Thank you, he thinks, the outside isn’t much anyway.
-M. Taggart
If you want help, I’ll help. What the fuck. myat myat. What the fuck does that mean. myat. We’re here and not. An afternoon turned long, with the drinks and the smoke. It had been a long while since this happened. So we sit and talk about a word and how that word is. A man sits on his chair, on the porch, he lights a cigar; the cigar made smoke and he watched that smoke.
-M. Taggart
My sunken soul is deep within me because my face is no more. We’re walking. Soon, leaves, wind, summer, ocean, sun, more wind and then rain. Mud runs with rocks down the mountain and here we are. and what the hell are you doing here.
-M. Taggart
Make a thing. Put it there. Next to the stone. Have you ever seen such a a thing? The thing held all the knowing- Having been put next to the stone. Now the knowing wishes to be. Have you ever sat outside, on the deck, in the middle of the night, and listened to anything that was willing to be? And the knowing was the maker of the sounds?
-M. Taggart
A boy stood in the middle of the woodland. Picking ticks from his legs, arms, and even his neck. He wished he had brought a lint roller, or alcohol to light his body with. The ticks mounted a heavy advance. He’d counted over fifty. And that was only the ticks he could see. The boy started to walk, then run, toward a pond. He sprinted downhill, the sun, blazing through the canopy of tree tops, started to dizzy him; his shadow caused too much chaos. Landing hard on the ground and letting go a grunt, which spurted spittle, the boy asked the nearby pond, ‘Is this happening?’ The pond was soundly sitting and awaiting the boys arrival. And finally the pond did respond, ‘Why are you here?’
Every now and then 3 a.m. visits us at 5 p.m. the next day- and we can already feel ourselves going back. Sweat drenched thoughts running in circles. Is it only us, or how many more? it’s not fine, we take air, but never tell ourselves to think of the breathing. They say to concentrate on it. Rip another hole and climb as deep as you can and struggle within the new hole until the scratching pain of now relieves.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
I swear to you at times I’m sure some of the great poets, the mammoths of thought, the truth seers and future givers, have stolen my words. However, there are a few issues. One of which is this, they never knew me. And also, they are all currently deceased.
Now isn’t’ that odd.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
For..fun, of course.
Being in a depression is seeing too clearly. Eventually either truth consumes us completely, or we create fog and come out of it. A weed grows nicely. A child plucks the weed from the ground. Isn’t that a nice weed. -M. Taggart
copyright 2017
