Confusing spectacles
Or: Only spirits for Feuerbach
Theory reeks of the madhouse,
my plaintiffs, my poor Germans
long swept from your Rhine.
Your tongue is a crazy one,
built of nonsenses glued
to nonsenses mysteriously
erected. Parched it is,
the muscle all of you
think with, like language
stirred from a sea of sand,
or ceaseless wastelands of myth.
Mere Habit 
Short,but very piercing piece, I especially liked the image of the parched muscle.