A warring flock

Tolling brave noise
on rainless plains which never know
if it is bright, or if it is dark,
they come ragged & shredded
like the young world old
around them now, senile
in its dealings with a bible
of distant frost in nature’s dreams.
The literature simple:
writ in stone and on feather,
between nerve and muscle
a verse or axiom on starving hide
which itself is a bag save bone underneath.
They perch on horses born men
who were tagged by some storm
once and now are but beasts
without a virtue not hunger;
about them it is a strangeness,
for things who blur the sky closed
& sleep in a voyeur’s hunched pose
can only forage, can never construct.
Who but them will know the world’s innards
strung about their feet like alms
to the poor from the gut of innocents
themselves strung about looking up,
built upon each the posthumous other
in a house or hut of feeding ants
under vultures losing feathers above
for the breathing few, quieting soon.


May revise “can never construct” into “on what has decomposes,” but there is little rhyme elsewhere, so it may unjustly stand out.


~ by Jeremy on June 1, 2010.

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