Under cover of language
words lurk, in cobwebbed
nooks and dusty crannies
in the dark pits of the mind
like throbbing guts
munching, mulching,
digesting, breaking down
the amino-acids of concepts
the red cells of the consonants
and the tissues of the vowels
the blood in the syntagmatic veins
waiting for the faintest cut
to spill their dyscontent on the tiled
floor
vomiting tropes
expelling unspelt words
sickness of the language which snaps,
cracks,
malfunctions, disrupts and blocks
and – sometimes – wrecks
when it should plant – and hacks
when it ought to tend –
and what it doesn't make it mars,
what it doesn't build it ruins –
In every body in wait lie
apocalyptic words.
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