that you may read poetry without a tongue, with a plight
of sore eyes, of eager eyes, only eyes,
and shelter yourself from the rain
with a hand agreeing to greet it falling extended:
plucking mushrooms as you
might be reasonable meeting it with
umbrellas - but umbrellas
far beyond the flowery gutter of scent
and decaying ambition where the frugal
fungal arise like lechery of goblin ****
celebrated - some might add
a dice throw of Macadamia nuts -
eyed i too you the death-stinker;
this is the English revision of Zulu -
primitive tongue extended into abstract,
by those speaking English as foreign,
my English is an English reversed on
the colonialists - its a robbing tongue when
effectively used, with this in mind
i'm starting to think the Irish are bigger *****
than the Welsh even with the middle exported
as V into France and the longbow-men -
remember the antonym of German compounding
is the hyphen in English - optic talk -
failed rubrics of arithmetic for one,
failed rubrics of spelling the other -
i wish you knew English as well as you once
you knew Swahili - i actually wish you knew
Swahili ably talking to you grandparents...
i'm not your grandfather, even though
i wish he wishes he was -
you became gluttonous in tongue as they in body,
fat overdose from mono-linguistic apartheid -
you let them undermine the bilingualism
inherent in you... the Prussians
and the Russian and the Austrians never stole our
tongue... of course we devolved it borrowing
too many words, but loan nouns are never able to evolve
into slang, into urban talk that deconstructs nations,
where once was France now there's only Paris,
the same with England and London;
that you may read poetry without a tongue,
and make tongue read unto mind a Braille -
goosebump fidgety prickle - sour palette without
saying Thai in York - for the eyes to see the deformity
at hand, for the tongue to turn silent for one evening
alone, Venetian snares of the omni- eyed fake
entrusted with Cerberus' oath (only howl a wake
when your master Hades passes into the Styx for
voice of democratically reprimanding judgement over all
souls to arise from droplet into their own content
river form); for i too would have taken to resurrecting
the tongue, but the tongue was forgotten for a purpose
of agility in sports and un-thought poetics of excessive
rhyme, hardly the jazz, hardly the blues,
and hardly poetry - jazz i agree beyond measure a mint
cloud among the down-pouring heavy-clad-grey-clouds
of Mozart - i admit the blues the invigoration -
but rap? rap i just don't get.
me and this homeless man just laughed it off:
and i'm a Brazilian (blue tracksuit bottoms,
yellow t-shirt, green hoodie) - Eminem nemo Emo?
get the beach bleach out... we're going to stain those
starfish as coordinates' worth of horoscope... twirling
twirling twirling... cartwheels a'hoo a'hoo a'hoo ha hey.
i mean, sorry, i don't get the "hood" -
i don't get post-grunge either... i think i'm getting old -
and it's true what they say... the only black friend
was a drug dealer - wanted me to teach his daughter
to play the guitar... i said i listened to Bob Marley's sons
and he said i listened to culture -
racial stereotypes can be fun, i guess, if you're honest
about them... keen on the Illuminati,
so i said: anything better than Kubrick's eyes wide shut ******?
n'ah? hell, if it can't beat that, what's the interesting part?
or as i itemise the rewards the Koran states...
those 72 virgins... is that a metaphor for gym membership?
if you're a lazy drunk like me... the last thing
you want is 72 eager beavers.