Should I lock myself away—
In a box and should I throw away the key,
how could the Rapiers, the Fangs, the Bargellos and Scalpels
sniff at me from their highchairs and mounts,
and pull these bones from out of me.
Everything boils in this body.
Everything cracks, cackles and splits.
I keep my daggers to the right of my head,
and leave my poisons to the left.
To the front I face my many handed mind,
and so keep my heart to the level of my eyes.
However, when the parties
fan out throughout the sky, I flee with my winds:
Auster and Septentrio, Favonius and Slanus
and take off into the silted deep.
Staying below the rising city, straying along
the encroaching barbican of the dream,
the ability to use this capsule as a womb,
breathing without the verbatim of the
modern mentality, is simple; bending language
becomes the only tool
to which to speak. Nary a definition said.
And if an herbal remedy is to present itself,
I should bury it.
And if ever a medicine man
come to exorcize me of my megagon tongue,
the demons be sent forth and devour him right.
This be my message for the Counts and Sharps,
to call me heretic and
I shall laugh until my soul is proven dead.
Fizzling is this Brainbox,
trapped, illusion, or incarnate I know not.
But this wordful philharmonic
brings in my science and dance nonetheless.
What of intention? Of life or destructor,
or fatalism or creationism, or hopelessness or deaf?
Everywhere echoes around.
Everywhere is possibly the same
but of a different color.
If I were born In The Latin,
I’d be a papyrus still sitting beneath the earth.
Some days, when I venture forthrightly, I wish
I’d had skin thicker than tissue,
so when the slicing commences I’d hold the red from spewing out.
What weapons I’d give up freely
if only I had but armor to grow. Fold up the wings and
crawl from up the shadows and
give-way this box with no vengeful thinking.
Thousands of fears fill and fill, yet the feet
dig so deep into the ground I stand at
the foot of Chthonian Beings.
The opera will end
with bodies strewn about,
but the aria must hold if I am to reach maelstrom.
A chemical compound is without one’s right mind,
but we must coincide if I am to proceed before
the Physicians, the Weavers, the Serpents and Garrisons
come and capture me.
This is my land, this is my rule.
Sweep away into the precession of time,
Amiss and off into my magicians hat I bow
out before the Sharpers breakout,
and the outlandish realities begin.