Endlessly wordy, verbose, way too long –
lengthy, discursive, protractedly rambling,
gambling with losing the audience’s last
capacities for the abuses to which their sore
psyches and ears had been rawly subjected,
shredded and strained to a murderous brink.
How dare I think it would be a success to
proliferate in this thick slick mix – this prolix
excess! Wasn’t it what I’d been taught to do?
When my ovum split into its hells and its
heaven – thirty-seven-point-two trillion cells?
How could anyone bred with that provenance
do fuck-all anything other than spew?
The first thing I was, and the first thing I knew,
was an overkill spill from the one to the few
to the more than I ever could call into view –
which yet somehow collectively came to be
Singular Me, as a similar slew became Singular
You. What can you do if you’re made of
a substance like that, but to find and to empty
the ark on Mount Ararat – sort through,
investigate every last gopher and bat – match
every tit with its tat: then take in the whole,
and see if what you had assembled was Soul.