I ***** my tongue
on the tip of this query
I drink salt-water from the goblet
through dry cracked lips

for surely it must follow
because I am lead by the nose
by sickening diaphanous rhythms,
coerced to contort

how flagrant must be my penitence
transcendental in inverse,
from upon my oaken tower
pitched, tarred and alight!

shall I make fetishes of my motions
maybe I will castrate myself on public television
cackling madly into the broadcast
bearing the thorny fruits of my loom aloft

I do not know where to go
this does not seem like my home
I feel alien
I swallow too much air

there is a dullness to all edges
I hear breaking glass in every noise
what paralytic sickness is this
that not innervation but violence possesses me

I would be the wolf that eats the world
and not the seeds in every pod

but the sun also rises
so the wolf does lie