Senile Word (The Word that Rapes the Air)

The Earth is a tomb, after all.
This woven air was never so formal.
I have dared it, Coalesce!
I confess, I have dared it to undress.

It (or all its infants drifting in
it like buboes on Assisi boys) spins
disguises out of licked ape-lips.
Air is one moment still, the next equipped.

The Earth (a tomb of chafing crowds)
writes speeches in its willow boughs.
But how deformed is air, this septic fare,
when our ape-lips briefly steal it?

Then (those beaches to the belly
like salamander skin) we seal it,
whole-conceal it in the jelly
of our busy brains, finely prostituted.

Writing is a violence, after all.
Sins of speech! It shows Francis (prances
near, preaching plagues and streaking,)
mending only his man-kind’s fall.

The Earth is a tomb. Indeed, so it is.
And an unsaluted mote, (a pitch-blue groat
in pools the galaxies drown in) which
sings to us parasites nested on its skin.

The Earth is a tomb. Indeed, so it is.
It begs toddlers of their infinite thrall.
(Then it answers their taunts with cataclysms.)
The Earth is a tomb, and an armory—that is all.

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~ by Jeremy on December 1, 2012.

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