Standing Beneath Charnel Stench

to remain unconvinced among the relentless
sabotage of building-faces and their window-disguises
of dawn, and to remain

in the remorseless stance of a statue as it
bears the price of memory, and all those families
who perished in previous wars, as the day

comes to a close, down the eyelids go, descending
the staircase to myths long and lost in the ebb-and-flow
of waters, unbroken, in the birth of patience, as they

grow with distorted brains among the awaited, wading
jade of crown-coiled antlers and nymph hopping songs, hope
dies on the blade of instant trust, as crested in the bosoms

of human-kind, pure-faith, a temple of sound as it chandeliers
encrusting ears against the wax of its moon-whistled thorn
ambushed cloud, houses upon houses scatter, and the one’s

bearing muscle of their demeanor, stay, un-afraid, while
the rest, still clawing for their rest, shrive into a cave of the
wind’s-mind and all things become lost to the rumor of eye

sight, perfection, barrier of psychological-mortar, what the
paintings told us, but left no trace of verbal impressions,
only echoes, as inferred by the understanding of a dark sky

and not moving as statues’ crumble, a relief to understanding
as everything must usher to dust as the mid-wife sings, her
throat made of mice, searching the terrain, not a single

faucet works in this neighborhood, but their hands are
made of gold, refusal of grease-mold, without slime to
cohere around intelligence, diggers and trappers

of 18th century fetish would’ve died at the feet of these
innocent, invisible people of our heart-beats, the one’s
who hear this as their own whisper, the one’s who

understand meaningless gold as a shine brighter than
bank-account salvation or salivating k-9’s or the protection
of attached doorways and their engendered hells, untamable

in relation to the rest of house-windows, as all gets dressed
and climbs the mountains of communication, to pronounce
for the first and last time what it is to have left their

umbilical-crowns in the showers of womb-jewels
sparkling from a distant forest in the eaves and blows
of non-gallow friendly procedures of eye-cunning stealthy

familiar to owls and hawks, eagles, condors, and a multitude
of predator birds ripping apart their food with the talons of
precision, where scholars have failed to enter and extract

the gem of what lies in silence and runs for its life
as it digs for its home in the grave of its shadow, with
life looming over it, but covered in capitalist masks, and the

traumatized, decapitated, ancestors of anger, and their
hatred-fuming mouths of frog-wash, and rivers of turgid
bowel syndrome-leaking, a roaming, untamable hell

upon the imagination and its absence of bedecked rugs
and soldier souvenirs, antique lamp-shades, and museum
costumes collected from 17th century France

where everyone was beheaded until all was laid
clean and obvious as pale as moon light dying of
thirst and rights were centered along their spinal columns

and no one questioned the vitality of freedom, as it
poured forth in the stems of quiet sidewalk-crack tears,
small, and minimal, wildness of presence, the nowness

of this extending mirage, dislocating showcases of
debatable-façade, revealing the brain to the brain
behind the glass who reads from right to left

frame-by-frame, each dismantled shaft-computer-held
ligament, yet-still-containing peppermint ingredients, lavender
enters, lays waste to whatever was thought here

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2 thoughts on “Standing Beneath Charnel Stench

  1. Beautiful poem, awesome job! Thank you for sharing!

    I had never read a poem structured as such before, with no clean full stops and capital letters, it’s quite interesting!

    Like

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