1. |
Mercurial
07:13
|
|
||
|
behold
the fools of old
the anointed
the low
all wisps of the below
trench fills up.
a mother drinks
and I become
her son
with foreign seeds
in foreign soil
and a stranger’s hand
behind a curtain of my own
behold
apparatus unfolds
insectoid man
and larvael bloom
moulting chins
forcep limbs
and spiracles.
fold,
the void around a mould
proto-men with
sets of two
doppler screams,
a terminus
same hands that grasp
same lungs that breathe
same tongues that lick
same smokestack end,
old pine box friend
lower
lower still.
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2. |
Shibboleth
11:58
|
|
||
|
a guest
a host of means
for lotus tar
and ovine cures
unwashed, vulgar hues
and silvered words
found on the cheap in
distended filth and the
name of names among
dogs that copulate
i took you in
clothed your words
in ears of grain
and spiral arms.
Noble rot will fill your cup
from the branches on a vine
but the wicker with the bread
sent the sun to stain your bones.
knives and receptacles
will weigh your heart.
Consummated.
i washed your feet
wrapped your skin
the vessels throbbed
and ebbed within.
Tabernacle
of the fish of the deep
we took communion with
the morse of a blink
congregations sang
the hymns of the new
translations glowed
receptors replete.
Out of the sightless
antennae that see
out of the sinews
something to grasp
out of the carcass
something that’s sweet
transmutated
i’m still made of lead
my weight is obsolete
I can feel the primal warmth
I can hear the primal hum
|
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3. |
Katabasis
10:06
|
|
||
|
Long is the way
is the backwoods trail
through a myth
through a verse
through intestines
less a man
more a beast
with pots of flesh
and dreams of dreams
but the lungs,
but the lungs with the air
blew the husks to the birds.
a path between the paths
coiled, umbilicus.
into
the grime
and the filth
and the lice
in their beds
to the worm
with a mouth
in the dirt
down into
the troughs
with their fucking snouts
surely the Lord
is in this house.
sweat of the meat
for a hole in the ground
and the scraps off a feast
i should not have come here
|
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4. |
Decipulum
12:04
|
|
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|
curated dust
constellations of our bones
resin from the hive of hives
plexus from
the muted stones
formless forms and
mindless strings
a mind before
the weight of things
twist
in the wind
with a yoke
with a separated void
and firmament
a call to prayer?
new wine, old glass
marrow of the spaces in between
mary of the shekels of
a call to prayer?
to mules
with broken backs
and hooves of glue
a call to prayer
a call of spite
and borrowed things.
Half-maker man
made the lines on my hand
a friend of a friend
drew the lines in the sand
twist, in the wind
with a yoke
with a separated void and firmament
down below in
the twenty-nine
I found I had no gills
down below in the sublime
my pockets had no use
tranquil in the murk
i found I had no feet
i am made of dirt
i am incomplete
|
||||
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