The Water Cannot Need a Flavor

Here, then, your biology.
A tongue limited by the film
on its friends the teeth,
slick as an arm knee-deep
in its lessons. Here is how
it is, not a drop removed
that it doesn’t lie in asleep,
unclothed, lazy as frost.
It clacks its meaning in threes.
Most of the time, it drinks
its rum, its young whiskeys cheap
or its women who when folded
like a lawn each end to each
aren’t worth a single anything
if its sweet nothings pray
for only the individual crumb.
It will know a meal one day
when the creature it attached to
lays open the psalms of the slug,
who whispers when it walks,
hears without ears and without want
the daily taunt of a card-playing god.
What it didn’t bother doing was taste.

Here is how it is, how it always was
for the freakish fish who at first
didn’t see, then pinched their eyes
out from the bottom of the sea,
and decided unanimously “we use these
or we perish, we remain unchanged
as female stock in the male restored,”
how the every-men you’ve known make
a well-made plan well-ignored.

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~ by Jeremy on December 24, 2011.

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