The way the trees swarm each other in this intimate twilight
Reminds her of shadow puppets declaring their corrupt desires
For a self-annihilating ecstasy that can never be realized.
What draws them toward this forbidden fruit?
What causes this insatiable curiosity for that
region outside of thought or language, universe-within-universe,
Recursively fractal, compulsively repeating, infernal, interminable?
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Such that, as with, because:
Words splinter, coagulate, become “other.”
Forgotten words gather in the burning forests, our brains grapple
to hold this civilization as hyper-object,
extruding gloomy clumps of history.
Those who know, don’t speak.
Those who tell, can’t spell. Those who fell
The giants swing their mighty axes.
-
Those who built their fragile persona
In a billion TikTok reels, declare their virtual mastery of
The propaganda of the Self: Pampered, irresolute, dissipate
Sovereigns of emptiness, folding into the
Wordless womb.
-
On this night that is unlike all other nights, there will be
An end to endings: A beginning-less transference of quantum
Oomph to a hideous, disengaged “something” which, with its
Huge baleful eyes and shaggy fur, marches upon Bethlehem like some
Sniveling beast waiting to be returned to the seller, based on poor
Amazon reviews.
