hello beauty of the lowlands,
flower of my homely gutter -
i wonder how it is that you have graced
this parched desert where no god has lived
since Humans rose to walk.
i wonder at the scum that seeps out from my teeth,
i wonder at the rage that simmers below my balls.
what waste it is to have scum in one's mouth
and rage in one's balls, and all the while,
nothing grows up or down;
what waste it was for the Gods to die
panting of thirst as we drank their water
until we stood upright in the sand of their eroded bones.
and then you are the flower,
as lonely as the very desert that begot you,
and then you are the tree
where tired beasts, drunk from too much life,
find shade and rest, that we might go on
bloated from degradation:
the degradation of failing to be history.
screaming at low volumes
