7 Days

7 Days
by Brendan Taylor



Memories ash
Paler now than the
Mountain misunderstood
In an appetite for your hunger.
Undertaking destruction, legalizing thunder.
In the belly of a sigh squalling,
In broken off fingers, chewed-up paranoia,
Sawed-off false claims align.
The tune hums numbness through anger…

Slammed-in martyrdom scars
Like the gnarled tree a pastry chef cannot shape.
A spot where no birds will flock, no animals will take pity on.
Where dust shovels a poison headache
Aimlessly unfolding a
Regrettable skin cold.
Inside, blood-tears cloud as atriums empty, breath sunders/
Crumbling toes asphyxiate
A cigar dries out the humidor,
Hangover sods the folklore,
And humor plays the misplaced one
Like never before, he swims.

Winds connect
Wilted branches suddenly
Correcting trances.
Asymmetrical leaf pattern dances
Absent hand-holds
Fleeing hip-touches
Forecast future let-downs,
He’s drowning.

A son will separate the womb
A son will plague worlds within.
As a sun will capsize this day,
A son will depart you all too soon.


A daughter reaches for imaginary air,
A table will clutch her underneath,
Where windows rob shrugging views.
Hands wrap-ankles
And prayers sigh like a whore.
A youth void of Dad, alone
Just as never before.

North of Somewhere
Calm growls/ calm grows
In alleviation’s tones.
Solemn--he stares at me, unrequitedly.
Mixtures of self-perseveration in a pit of angst.
Monsters canonize, the séance is breached.

Inside piles of muddy violence,
Intuition grows naturedly, secondly.
Oh the guilt…will can bring.
Caught in between these river banks
An ironed out slave,
An ancient rut proclaims/ defames
Words of the unwritten
For under-written ones.

Dissenting eyes rip,
Outward-sockets fall
Paradise looms
Inward tears a cornea,
Down falls the crown.

And so it was written…
Alien to the ground
Sleeping through clock’s pain,
A wreath of sadness,
The cereal box’s dismay
At morning loudness,
Only a murderess can bring to a small town.
Now, I write him away…



7 days fuel the week out
7 days they said it was all made
Without a sound.
7 days number in plain
Contrast.
7 days Apollo reverses an island of wills
The mediocre moon wails
Pain insidenial…shrill.




7 days without context, sleeping bag nor hair tie.
No comfort through avoidance.
Aphrodite and Eros,
Swimming through him to stardom, alone.

7 days, “I don’t think so….”
In the eighth, he lasts.

Soon Brendan will learn the ways of the internet and be able to be contacted, until then leave a comment.