Thief of Baghdad – a hypogeum

 
There were a few more tropes to add to our
lethargic liturgies – some gestures of
entwined tongues as if we were both inclined
to straighten out the clinamen of tomes
through which the strut of single words or T-
units still ticks; your angle may fit mine
but we can’t part, we’re particles just nailed
to the sound wall of truth-tables – our auras
are reduced to fields of fuzz – the void
values fit phrases, slit syllables and signs
in the form of a scribbled over fiat lux.
 
But then, you are no fortune teller that’s
why you keep bringing up finances – what
your late Latin would call finis – since
our money means our end, the scope of the
translation being as you’d define
me man being going back to Greek
for parsing all personae void of voice
as an eschewing of linguistic shortcuts
and eschatologies. The scathing coinages
still echo vegetation, vintage of mowers,
 
that is, tomorrow, that’s what lexicons feel
like, sexual deaths under misprinted icons of
phonetic lofts which scrape the sprouting palate.
All sentiments are gone, all agons settled in
one sentence – tenses embroidered with
anacolutha, roots strained and tense
now rotten in collages of spent xanadus
and zany don’ts; under ungrounded roads
your score on scorifiers reads: love
all – souls in soliloquy are equal.
 
Again your modern arts – articulating words
against photonic screens beyond which
the muffled screams still fumble heuristically
for a ear, or a war? Our groovy topic in
an idiom or two means common place
or grave – locked locus, mute geometry
of genes wherein we’re silent through each other
for brevity of verbs demand expletive
plots of land; a dram of mere agrammatism
won’t be a drama – no language is a province.