Part Sephenn - Dead Letter, Numb Twat, Drifting Stones

A boy (hungry) left the country
That empty stomach of his! That burning hole
Where once a lost Jesus
Was his groom, a greasy shining God,
A healing stomach ache against banality
Of rooting, saving, building, owing.

But banality is nothing?
Ah no? But oh, the joy!

On the city square friendly scholars sat
Reading Ovid by a full moon, they laced
Chaos to cosmos on their quoting tongues
And I presented my empty stomach to their feet
And nobody yelled that I confide in fantasy,
That you are nothing but a dead letter.

No sir, I don’t need a vision, no disclosure
And no revelation through higher powers, no ma’am,
A summer morning, black coffee, cigarettes,
The singing example of a fly, a mosquito,
Which bombards my absence with her drunk figures,
Such things suffice to lift up the skirt
Of a moist soul, to blind your critical eyes
With her numb twat, oh yes sir.

I don’t care about words, you see, but about constructions
That marched the street this morning out of nowhere
When the yawning children, still drunk from sleep,
Carefully played with each other’s desires
And caught balls that no man would toss over the hedge
They lie down on the curb, hugging each other
And kiss without caring about their distant futures
It is about these constructions, without meaning.

I dream with head and hole
Around the clock, I braid and I knot
With all ten toes, ten fingers
At once, I walk on my bare hands

Into the night, of this paper

My lips pluck drifting stones
Of the road, my climbing feet churn
The constellations, my voice
Comes up and runs away

I have nothing to gain.