There is nothing but the body behind this sheen of self. This compound of trillions of seperate trusts, chemistry and the usual concussed thoughts. The seething of the ancients, marrow mouthing the sounds of all the gods and ghosts, moving my lips as if they had a choice. The ruined country of my own invention, words left lying all over the page. All joy, all sorrow the staved in skull of freedom. Smiling with the teeth of ground gears, weeping with the tears of clockwork I write out my lists and plans. Unproven claims of exception, the sunken stone thrown so close to reason. The soul of poetry just another affliction.
I am the child of indolence and ineptitude. I am the words unfurled from tears. The welcome worn, the miles wandered. The cage of inaction and the course of history. My mind now weak, my body a shambles, and still I cling to this empty name and direction. The sour stomach and the hungry heart. The blessed bitter taste that lingers in every single thing I say. The way the world moves on, however wrecked or broken. The words released, as if they were ever held at all.
It is early here. It is even earlier where I am from. Here the morning sieves through the poplars, not the pines. Here the dreams are run aground before sleep even has the chance to fail me. The words ignore the hiss of my breath and the sputter of my heart, the hum of my blood another symptom of this afflicted legion. The ache and sadness just so much dissention in the ranks. This drooling, seeping, barking meat coddling his last conceit. I wake to find each wound waiting, the price of this subtle magic greater every day. I wake to find the loss I always arrive at watching for the first spilled tear. One word then another, the plaintive tone, the want of grace. It is the disease that documents each last poem as it breaks me word by word.