Civilization is a cracked heirloom

Civilization is a cracked heirloom
and I don’t much want it. A disease
in the word—such is a pentateuch—
harbored in the old comfort of a womb
built of concrete and bookshelves—
fingerprints go native—how the doomed
march in tie and suit—and dresses—
we wear a lot and, undone, go naked
when much less alone—always the patter
and demand, always the compromise—
God writ they say a manifesto
in the desert and instructed nations
with it—I say the old railway
near here is a bloodstream titans
would rather travel in—lie on—
to recline before the full recline,
or a furnace dance—how often
young men hold what was given them
and find fault in all the cities—
Plato’s dynamite in the cave—
in the edifice, not a sense edified
by its witness—how calamitous
the first view of civilization
only the poor boys inherit—
we none of us discourse deeply
as our mouths go to rot—
Godot they say waited a century—
much longer—much longer than
I will wait for the children of men—
an atheist presbyter greets
the ironist on the plank—
in a cell—the multiplying hells—


~ by Jeremy on June 24, 2013.

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