Friday, May 9, 2014

Whipping a Dead Horse

a shadow never speaks, but 

today the fifth gospel must speak
or poetry
or something for which there is no name

how the full round earth
is like a belly
both filled to swelling sated
and door bloated with malnutrition
the whole ball 
might be a hole

a blue hull
languor cadwishes

structure disorder

the serene interminable bliss
of dialectics

we'll have one of that
to the horse
which he watched being whipped
the father forced to drink
by the other men who were born in the lane

paint drips
from a gunshot wound
in a page
which bears
no ether

a shadow
knows what is possible

from the smallest

to the the greatest
and towering gardens
dreams elastic spires confected up in bird woven trumbets
these robots
their bodies making a great wind
upon which glitter
and viruses begin
great dreams
that illumine

but i release you from the shadow
you are a practical turtle
and all the old world
is your mud

let even all the crystal eternities of mud
forget you are a shadow