Without a Sound

How boring if the world like a leech
Clings to the deep bogs of my breast and sucks
The plugging flow of putrid blood: like a knife's
Slice through assiduous bleeding, the healed and the opening
Wounds, abscesses of time, the constant tonic
Of a chronic inadmission, a lack of inhibition
Heading towards death. Long worms pulled out slowly and stretched
Like a ringing roll of tape, and the clack-work batter
Of stress, lacking sex and less of flesh in a trafficked mess
For adulterous tariffs: the best guess, an inevitable test
Of an impressing chime. So when the swans cool
In the ardent rivers and the limes hang thickly on the trees where birds
Perch silently, eyes blinking in the fog and breeze, while
Soldiers fall still in the mists, each cake-holed wound like a blessed
Eucharist of inevitable reply, still there is the sigh
of the mote and the mog: thick sticks of thistle down, stubble
Of sirupy slime, crime of growing tad-poles and shrieking mungs,
A horror of frogs and ghostly despair. What is this pallor when the moon
Blinks like the Cyclop's tooth on the jack-assed, screw-capped end
Of the sky, when the stars drip like blackened fangs and the howling earth
Tremors with a sudden disgust, disgrace, like the fulminous waves
Luminous in marvels, rancid delight, dressing the sword-beaked fish?
It takes a hero then, and something sharp, so sharp it penetrates
To the inner vanishing pussy, the chesire-cat mark of the grinning ground, to renew
The icy claws where the snows flock like sheep, the spicy clause
Of deception or deep and residual lust of a same, lust for the grinding
Of weary machines, lust for mechanicked removable clocks,
Lust for the ticking gears and the drooping eyes. Cars on the streets
Go wham wham wham, the brakes incarcerate the wandering dregs
Of asphalt, and the legs are peddling endlessly, tireless, without a sound.