I own the witticisms as they clamber out my mouth,
Yet I am conscious to your objections:
“They are mine, they are mine.”
Those figures must be the translations I see,
For are not you and I the same?
“The one, the one-”
Or three or four or more.
No other doctrine do I follow,
With its telling paths of thorny adaptations,
Adjuncts and sirens that lure to ambiguous slumber
Of a mind caught amongst religiosity.
Your aging whispers in my head
My sentences rearrange into a trial more dangerous,
Where the learning curve leans not to the right.
Your whispers- or are they mine?
My words, my feet,
So different, so similar in rhetoric rhythm.
Counter-curses have their own possession,
Their own limbs to cling with;
Boom they do:
An explosion of the literary illusion,
My labyrinth- “and mine, too,”-
Is on the tongue,
Breaking, crumbling, flowing in waves.
Twist it, the flavour of sanity, the blend
Of juice and yearning for all eyes to be dotted
With phonetic gazes, substantial responses to you,
Not towards immaterial me. The iconic is chronic;
Your revolution my revelation,
As if I claimed none of the wild knowledge
That grew with the power of genesis:
My aim is lower than if we all could a bow and arrow reach,
Non-organic stares lift me out of the change.
“Hear these words, hear them.”
They make sense to you alone, a character
Within the document of my signature.