The sagging earth

In this a constant stag
the plains turn to mist,
a creeping mist where mules
hunt men and their horses
all and each of them lost,
looking, their faces black,
somehow rabid as they attack
their own long faces.
Where did they trade places?
Was it in faith, as mounting
the bray forth into song,
on top of muscle and buck,
when at first the mule made luck
then in the gamble lost it?
What froth came forth in the gloss
of language, this bray and nay
which took each other for their names
and killed the child sterile?
When it first burned the wheat
where every mouth chews to eat
it felt a hungry rigor,
a moron of a feeling shiver
which had no name but pain
and what pain could tell
in the fields of hell in constant
buck and cracking shell,
where four legs fell to eight,
and grew limp on a pregnant gait
made by straight standing apes
who thought for once a slave
would perfect their work to make
a world of laze, gangrel, and waste
on the backs of beasts
where in fact they had no lease.
Not a thing around to punish them
as they train their thoughts on hymns
thinking silent and aloud too late
they own the ground they stand on
itself cripple for their mighty weight.


~ by Jeremy on July 15, 2010.

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