Thursday, April 1, 2010

On the violence of song

From the roots of breath
burbles the infection -
clouded and gray,
a machine soaring into the heavens
spewing pus in homage.

What is life,
that I take note of it?
Merely the not-dead
is invention, extending
the fingertips into new realms.
And eternity divine
can cast itself into the putrid flames without change:

We hover in the gap.
Singed, damaged,
bloody consumptives.
One day, one of these
will begin to sing.

Cutting, slashing
the howling song
Rouses the ashes
in hallowed vibrations,
the voice's spewing spray
coats the moaning trees.

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