Pilgrims to name the old narcotic

The world sometimes relaxes with me.
Things and the static bubbles
so yearned for in the needy do other things
like deliver an insomniac his medication,
and thinking a while, whichever flies transcribe
the last years of meaning onto the dirt,
which smells like it shouldn’t in the low cities
where stalk taller than oaks great terrors
first eaten too soon, when noise encroaches.
The noise is only for those ears spread for weeds
to toss upon in faraway deserts, where beetles
like men too discard their appendages and proceed.
Some walk upstanding–others along the structures
of pretty damn scarred walkways built haphazard
onto the reaching cliffs below, and sleep with the bodies
upstanding no longer, but somewhat in a happiness
to dream in minutes how much longer will all of you need
amenities displaced of each other. The occasion
comes to the man whose eyes open Swiss,
for what else but the stomping of Sundays
offers goldhanded and naked for every human
and every drowning man his forest entire.
In there are villages who needn’t survive;
they merely fertilise, lie, and become the new feet
of nomads alive too short to stand,
too short to grow, as though the aphids
making their evening worth the gallon
passing by fibers thrown into men,
sometimes good by noon or so thrown down
they count their body solely one–
pray or describe, in what good moods
given as the last metal so carefully
bled over falls, as it should, onto my head
thinking for me: desire isn’t a word worth a thought,
but a pitfall the spared boy lives on through untouched
and nakeder alone where clothes are simple instruments
to separate the happy, the comfortable, the obsessed
from those stoic limbs crossed in fervor,
the sweat not smelled still there as a film
to watch the crowded-around massive ignorance
curdle to books, and curdle to a deafening rant.
After this in the dusty village who eats
wholemouthed before noon can start
counting the hours before their hearts
engross the pathetic, and like lettuce
dissolve in euphoria and the dead pastors alike–
where the moon could piss and remain careless,
starve the hours and fall into the slug
who, after being named, remembered
the family of limbs left scattered behind
him and it and the lessons thought fit.
And it encroaches so near to people
they forget they themselves are evil.
When I sleep with the diaspora
who know me little, and I of them less,
I forget to err as human, a young one yet,
still and hopelessly forever a hostel for the visiting guests.
The lice they leave can’t care to touch
but they do, and this hermit sighing
looks outside and burns his lungs
thinking aloud it is enough.


~ by Jeremy on January 19, 2010.

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