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?