Ode To Nothing

Amidst withered ears in the field, which whisper cussing into wind,

Massacred masses, forsaken, sacred,

Through with feeling someone else’s fear,

Plot together of love or mourning.

Wretched, steeped in the foul stench of soil and air, and then it does not rain.

Nothingness sucks out vespers like snakes swallowing other tales from their own,

Unable to retch, to reverse the tract because of course,

This time is already backwards.

When emit-ted, the forbidden tongues lick emptiness burnt out of the hollow night above the rotting field.

There, their silence ends all beginnings.

As they must, the wet smells rise, sweet stench, putrid, ambrosial shit, snot-salve and gruel.

In the distance, the pine trees wait for bodies of harts to lie at their roots.

Their seduction seeps out like wild hair or a murder of ravens,

Spreading invisibly into the blackest of nights, bearing abyss

Through out each eye like a black tear.

Was ist animal auf Deutsche? Nichts. Tier.

The swallows drop their gullets to the white cut of the moon in the sky.

The ravens caw through, over and into the fields, the soil, shorn against the dying corn.

Somewhere a laborer wrenches the left ear off the head of a sow,

Slipping it from his fist onto the ground, and crushing

It into the blood with the sole of his leather boot,

To break her will, and cow her

Toward dis-

Assembly, the kill-floor, a rent jugular, the blood-pit, the line.

The ghosts speak like a bucket of severed ears, emptied on the table,

A colonel or lieutenant eating them

As many years as lumps of cleaved flesh,

Cloven hooves.

Here, the husks peel back layers of themselves to speak into shells cleaving to

The sides of your head in ruin

‘Abandon   All   Hope’

The stalks cast their own worn, weather-eaten ears

Toward the wasteland beneath;

The curses of which passeth all understanding.

van g

van Gogh, The Ox-Cart (1884)

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