Language Rots
Language rots
in memories,
thoughts,
but in dreams
above all
do lips blow
cherry O's and ah's
rolling hilltops into
milky afterbirth atmosphere
that I tumble down
quite suddenly by ear,
And in the valley pitch...
Blind visions—
Master!
Totem!
Taboo...too clear!
A knife pulled from
ear to ear.
My tongue dries
in One breath.
There is no blood
to sop it's cracks.
Speak!
Swaying sandstone tablet
of my mouth,
bring dull words hum
to stricken Sabaoth!
Oh Master,
Oh Totem,
Oh Taboo!
Did language escape you?
Does it hurt?
Are you well?
Will language pass us too?
Ought life still bear inside us
that sickly smell?
Then, shall we forgive
our fathers?
Or plate their heads
with dinner done?
Cut mothers from
our shadows?
Pull demons from our beds?
See God designed before us
cowled in marble stoop?..
and perched above the entrance
all we'd hoped to lose?
Won't our figures fail us?
Won't 'we'
forget 'us'?
When past loses present,
when future
brings before us
new ages
soundless breath,
towards beyond becoming,
across the footpath of death,
and then beyond all passage,
beyond all broken bread,
beyond all of movements asking
save but one
colliding
thread...
then,
and only
then finally,
will we want language again?
Copyright © Local Order | Year Posted 2019
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