simonhlilly

DARK LANGUAGE

It is not to find a new whore to worship.

Nor to glory in our own juices.

It is not to be comforted in the warm skin of animals,

The trees roaring to oblivion in the hearth.

It is to summon the dark language

Not spoken since the ice has melted.

The wisdom of witches bending the storm winds

And tasting righteous blood.

Banished beyond dawn and sunset,

Banished beyond the myths of brightness

And simple good death in war.

So old it would not even be recognised –

The hum of bees, the chorus of sparrows.

Acid-etched into the deepest rock,

The ache within molecular passions.

Blue electric sparks off tongue-tips

Singing the dead to rise up and talk.

The dead, soft and blue-blooded,

We will eat them to remember

The nerve tides, star-tingled.

Doubting the echo of endless thoughts,

Speaking in slivered silence, silver laughing out loud.

We breathe to serve, to record absurdity.

The dreaming language breathes us real.

Small wonders, we die out eternally.

The dreaming language beneath the sound and sense,

Beneath the patterns of stars, their names,

And their bitter rivalries.

One step beyond madness-

It is impossible to return from there.

A vacant house inhabited by echoes.

To hold all impossibilities at one instant

A fractal language that spins old darknesses.

—