The Intra-Collapse of Language (Aug. 26, 2015)

parched lips were sewn together with speechlessness
as the teethless wanderer sold his silence for the price of a whore
and fed his children it in hoarse mouths raped to reticence
before he hung himself from the rope of regret
the wanderer got aroused from the black smoke of the sacrificial pyre
emerging from the scorching ruins of reason
that is cooling in the stench of the vapor of flaming words
in the ruinous basilica of no-thing-ness and truth
complete and utter hopelessness befalls the wanderer
and an unutterable sequence of words takes hold of his throat;
anti-clockwise and chaotic evolution of written and spoken language
ends in confusion at worst and total death at best

dark endless oceans of neglect and of pain
spill over to the shores of redemption  and logic
as the wanderer tore out the last pages of his thousand-year diary
his prayers became ashes left of the bonfire of speech
the revokation of literature becomes a cancer
and scribes become property in brothels and on the fields of cotton;
carved in the stele of dementia and abandon
is the concept of unable-ness of verbal expression
all known languages deteriorate from within
collapsing inward in vain with a taste of sarcasm
sentences dilapidate like fucking n.y. towers
and stumble on their own feet which is grammar

i am the changeling born of the mother of anti-tongues
tucked softly in the crib of phonetics and grammar
to stir revulsion and dissentment between man and language
and to put to exposure the fragility of it all
the hobo of existential sophistry veils life in noise
the golden rhymes distort as if heard through a raspy filter
the wanderer walked astray lost in psychotic monologue
with his feet splashing in a puddle of his own rancid piss

god can not carve words on your canvas of flesh and blood
why do you ask your him, or her, or it, to beshrew himself; herself; itself
over your worthless life; i do not think your god can speak at all
let alone understand english, or your sorry excuse for it
divine omnipotence is a hoax and a string without end
and solace is a land mine planted in the yard of the home of our upbringing
language is a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow
and i, the terrorist, plant bombs at its foundations

hearken:
it is a measure of coming of health to question the absolute truth with nausea
it is a criterion of autonomy to doubt the genuinity of language
it is a sign of confusion and disorientation
to take for granted the intrinsicality of the qualia of words
and it is the eternal feeling of perplexity contra the weirdness of language
that is the measuring rod of intellect and numinous potential.
language is as much the crucible of logic and emotion
as it is the washbord of our spiritual fabric
and it is with the boiling waters of this melting pot
the individuist transforms his muck into his cleanliness