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poetry is not for practice it's much too dire for life its suture is its structure knowledge is its knife no god may prod the poet's print the truth shall reason wreak the mouth of fury brays the brink where meaning bearing breaks and when the demon drops the pen for pittance of its wrack the pit of fury seethes again - stare! stare into the empty crack stare into the empty crack of hell it's laughing in your face your face is laughing in the well you're standing in my place and words can heal as well you know like the pealing of a bell you know -- The bird who cries cannot survive - coyotes find her first - yet lives like hers again arise, as kin escape the curse. They count their clever patterned feathers - preen the points of sanity - they burn to breed her tattered tethered heightened sensitivity. As each one dies, they mock her cries, and praise their fabled prophets. The dead shall rise, Cassandra lies, so catch her in a coffin. Ah! here's one now - let's cage her song! We'll save her from this place. But oh! my friend, is something wrong? She's shrieking in your face! -- The body's a vestigial trait, a "little tail" beating time; the self a silly hollow bore, a spirit-voiced inverted mime. The heart is mostly metaphor, contracting slowly into things - the will is coming (running late!) to claim the song another sings... but I, oh, I exist, I do - they promise me I'm true. |