Behold
The fools of old
The anointed
The low
All wisps of the below

Trench fills up
A mother drinks
And I
Become
Her son
With foreign seeds
In foreign soil
And a stranger's hand
Behind a curtain
Of my own

Behold
Apparatus unfolds
Insectoid man
And larval bloom
Moulting chins
Forceps limbs
And spiracles

Fold
The void around
A mould
Proto-men with
Sets of two
Doppler screams
A terminus

Same hands that grasp
Same lungs that breathe
Same tongues that lick
Same smokestack end
Old pine box friend

Lower
Lower still

A guest
A host of means
For lotus tar
And ovine cures
Unwashed, vulgar hues
And silvered words
Found on the cheap in
Distended filth and the
Name of names amongst
Dogs that copulate

I took you in
Clothed your words
In ears of grain
And spiral arms
Noble rot will fill your cup
From the branches on a vine
But the wicker with the bread
Sent the sun to stain
Your bones
Knives and receptacles
Will weight your heart

Consummated
I washed your feet
Wrapped your skin
The vessels throbbed
And ebbed within
Tabernacle
Of the fish of the deep
We took communion with
The Morse of a blink

Congregations sang
The hymns of the new
Translations glowed
Receptors replete
Out of the sightless
Antennae that see
Out of the sinews
Something to grasp
Out of the carcass
Something that's sweet
Transmuted
I'm still made of lead
My weight is absolute

I can feel the primal warmth
I can hear the primal hum

Long is the way
Is the backwoods trail
Through a myth
Through a verse
Through intestines
Less a man
More a beast
With pots of flesh
And dreams of dreams
But the lungs
But the lungs with the air
Blew the husks to the birds

A path between the
Paths coiled
Umbilicus into
The grime and the filth
And the lice
In their beds to the worm
With a mouth
In the dirt
Down into
The troughs with their fucking snouts
Surely
The Lord
Is in this house

Sweat of the meat
For a hole
In the group
And the scraps
Off a feast

I should not have come here

Curated dust
Constellations of our bones
Resin from the hive of hives
Plexus from
The muted stones
Formless forms and
Mindless strings
Of mind before
The weight of things

Twist
In the wind
With a yoke
With a separated void
And firmament

A call to prayer?
New wine, old glass
Morrow of the spaces
In between many of
The shekels of
A call to prayer?
To mules
With broken backs
And hooves of glue

A call to prayer
A call of spite
And borrow things
Half-maker man
Made the lines on my hand
A friend of a friend
Drew the lines
In the sand

Twist in the wind
With a yoke
With a separated
Void and firmament

Down below in the twenty-nine
I found I had no gills
Down below in the sublime
My pockets had no use

Tranquil in the murk
I found I had no feet
I am made of dirt
I am incomplete