Ten Key Babel

broken spanish under my tongue causes me to search for the root form and tell stories. when only the dead can understand.. trace back to the beginning the spinning form of darkness that brought times ticking finger and gathered a little dust for a surname. now latin is a dead child in the streets of ecclesiastical dictionarys. i see the masses walking they speak in angelic tongues. wearing japanese doomsday casio wrist watches that tick tock the dreaded hour back. while only the quick can truly be dead. except maybe for gods ghost whose halogen form turns over this dark place, hiding his atomic elemental symbols in the palm of his hand. he forms the wet and dry ground. and god said 'let there be a firmament in the mist of the waters and let it divide the waters from the waters.' now clouds drift by slowly for whom it is reserved, the falling of rain turns my raincoat prophet inside out. magnetic needles intwine. my head is dizzy and all that is left is communication. wearing reflective tape round my wrist i spin a liitle sign language out my fingertips. my sickness is severe a lack of words has caused my ghostly prophet to not respond. hymnals of anabaptist uprising in my stomach. i have walked to long and spoke to much already, this brach of reason is so very old.