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

see

see

how the full round earth

is like a belly

both filled to swelling sated

and door bloated with malnutrition

sung

the whole ball 

might be a hole

a blue hull

languor cadwishes

information

structure disorder

haecceity

the serene interminable bliss

of dialectics

we'll have one of that

none

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

sickest

doubt

to the the greatest

and towering gardens

dreams elastic spires confected up in bird woven trumbets

these robots

copulating

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