The First Line Finds the Last
Ancient scribes scratch their quills
to a perfectly illiterate God;
so the words sometimes get ugly.
I plug-in my neuronal soul
try to say something not yet uttered,
not a scrambled re-hash,
from a dyslexic troubadour
or blind hurdy-gurdy man.
Let those ten hundred monkeys loose,
for in time they may find a meaning;
the trunks of wise elephants just may paint
the perfectly mathematical
score of a Bach fugue..
A virgin/whore dwells in the keyboard
her creamy petticoat is spotted
with blood and jism,
yet sometimes she will write sublime poetry
a thing both ugly and beautiful
for a wordless God.
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