Spontaneous V.i
What is left here to say?
The flesh marred with the heavenly-
or the heavens marred with human mass.
The doubting children are carried in stacks
by the charlatan who lives down the racks-
of hills and trash
They house it under their mattresses
They see to it that you don't know those things-
reeking in their minds;
bleeding and mouthing words
at the end of day;
it's dead
Or is it?
The vile man's house ain't full of luxury,
his house is full of pain and misery;
of tomorrow and the abyss
of knowing a million lifetimes;
he cannot attain a life satisfied
of his own dysentery
The house won't lead a strike;
it won't, it will fly;
away from the people, away from itself
away from the world;
in as much as a chagrin
The field has bled itself into the sun
under fire or under rain
brought by its discontent
of his own mass
of his own dying strength
of his own frailty
of his own deadness
of his own;
because he will not;
for one second he won't.
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