Thursday, 4 May 2017

these bleddy women don't have tongues

these bleddy women don't have tongues
their belief they speak is
their​ first illusion

i find my tongue tied to
adam's apple

the bowl he gave
homes a crack
do you hear it drip drip drip...

all our blood
into the sea of silence it is red

"take these words and
barter us back
our wombs, you morons"

those verbs don't work
nor does his adjective
clauses or nouns
proverbs mock us
and some stand dumb at our feet
like his many hapless children

i pick one
out of hunger
and my eyes squint at
the sour grape, i throw it

we learn
the day is never born
in his orchard
we persist
ape, try and ape
it still bleddy won't.

i watch
two white birds dissolve
into the blue

and orange
swallowing the sun

rapes our nights, and
the old hag hides behind
her veil of clouds, dumb

and moody,
one of us:
her many daughters

... without language
this moon
has led better lives.

we go about pocketing words
like orange pips
believing we need them...

until someone says,
"but hey, there is no more magic

the trade is treacherous, and
war is rotten.
Let's just spit the orange pips
up his face"

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