Where
The mountain falls into a blur
A swirling vortex of nothing
A carpet lapped up into green
A tiny globe of jungle asphyxiated.
There lurks a mirage cloaked in cellophane
Where they speak with their achtung
And flammen. The innards glow like
Towering amber streetlights
I am always amazed that it never
Melts this landlock into nothing
But a sea within solids. I have
Every convenience nurtured to me, like a womb
I dislike your alien charm but it still
Amuses me that you turn it on like a drum
Machine and waste a day or more.
They do not speak your foul language
Here in the avoirdupois heart of benevolent
Solitude. And as such you make a fine
Black draped missionary out of me. My
Wonderous charity. I become a microphone
Your relentless larynx. I hate it
But not necessarily enough.
I will meet you there in the white vapoured soul
Of a limp black flag. Where I deface
The unspoken with my crude and childish
Scribble. Where I know it by a singular
Mothered and neutered word
Home.
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