Lex Taylor
Lex Taylor Poems
Weary of straying, greatly
I sit on a remote diner
and order a sundae.
Entranced, I bask and reckon;
...
Those tiny blokes with neckties
in gelid offices, confer you
revolutions and umbrage.
I saw the elm, vortex,
...
I can transmute cheap metal into gold,
I am able to take any form I like,
I know who I was in my previous lives
and I can vanish all kind of morbidities,
...
The years of quiet knowledge cultivation,
Alone, the madness amplification,
Born of a disconnected from reality,
And gone haywire, big imagination...
...
The deeply soft and noble balance,
Of the stalwart punkish youthhood,
Endlessly dark and white fairhood,
According to circumstances.
...
Signs... agents of brutality,
Priceless with mystic splendor,
Telling of death's wooing; contenders,
Infinity, mortality.
...
Words will bring generosity,
For our wooing of loves concealed,
Of blessed fondness that symbols yield...
Desiring informality.
...
Oh necropolis! you charnel quagmire!
Initiation grounds of genealogies!
Lend grim, dead, mellifluous homesickness!
Grandest shelter for my quondam sorrows,
...
To give credit where it is due and sing your praise,
with admiration,
Adoring your devoted genius which deserves
my admiration,
...
I looked back into my life's graveyard dreams,
And resolved the signs' sub-textual enigma,
They are a melange of mystic schemes,
The remedy for the headstones stigma?
...
After forty years with two months and twelve days,
Since you, great modern Dionysus, did leave us,
You, shrink of masses who turned our souls ablaze,
Deserve from the tomb of the earth's vileness...
...
The dead have fun in calling us names,
Even mimicking and disrespecting,
With pathetic and fancy nicknames,
Which prompt a poetic justice deflecting,
...
Monstrosities needing an uprooting,
Continue appearing in the dead woodbine,
Their scathing and ludicrous disputing,
Out of the edges of any plot line,
...
Deceased, carnal, hostile, western schools of thought,
Rejecting the institutes of the Lord,
With secret personal fear to be outscored,
The laments of the dead this musings have brought,
...
Why vindications of death's oblivion,
Grant scholarships for the contemptible sheep,
Of inferiority ingrained skin-deep?
It's conceit, prejudiced about fortune...
...
Dead sings of prying complexity,
Kind of impossible to explain.
Vile greed for servilism profane;
It's inferiority's duty.
...
Oh my adored, passing, tourist lassies,
And my model, worshiped, billboard damsels,
With friendly, about town, style that agrees,
And mangler deities, and heartsick angels...
...
The darkness' visages were contrasting,
But dead signs were of love everlasting,
And fragrant of primary's school pure love,
Matchers of obsessions which are lasting.
...
No one could know the untold signs,
So their dead spell did not run cruel,
Its loving, ambiguous accruals,
Went to pass away to the brine,
...
Symphony for the dead fairies,
Composed by the fays exquisite,
With its kindly trust like velvet,
And planar visions of furies,
...
Lex Taylor Biography
I was almost in the middle of the year that punk rock was co-opted by the mainstream media,1977. I'm a poet and copywriter for the last 20+ years, a screenplay writer for the last decade and an advertiser for the last three years.)
The Best Poem Of Lex Taylor
The Strayer
Weary of straying, greatly
I sit on a remote diner
and order a sundae.
Entranced, I bask and reckon;
the sally went utterly tender
by the alamedas and the
boulevards. Houses of
gaudy molded fronts.
The dusty walls were dozing
smudged with tags. There
are snowy bronze knobs
in the gates and doors;
effigies and statuettes
neoclassical or modern
styles, but also gothic
buildings, really somber.
I was a trifle unmindful
of the unearthly funfairs
or the malls with rinks
and other odd saturnalias.
There existed afternoons when
I have taken naps in great
thoroughfares and other
days I went strolling by
Ten-kilometer long modern marts.
What is threat for the ghosts?
The first-run unpolluted lanes?
The old-hat penny arcade clerks?
The wild melees on book-fairs?
Cute grass on inclined parks.
Automats, pens, brasseries in
the cavalcade of streets in
levels of interlaced viaducts.
The square underway? Net baits-
A clepsydra saturated with
rompings and motions of the
kids and their caretakers.
Off the populous street zones,
the environs are markedly less
crowded, I found a dome-shaped
and white church in the midst
of a park -Sitting to relish
a bottled nectar I discover the
Vaishnava motive, the parrot
or (green) polly who enters the
pine, sort of delectable
and didactic vision. Ensues
a jiffy magical, the dryads
glow and undulate for me.
Kolkata, WB,2003
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