Anth 15 11.11.00 (language Poems)

while all other creatures remain stutterers in the womb of the Word an infants bones grew silently till finally the vagina of language opened to give birth to man

as each word grew the language grew the rider in the golden horde was carried by a spear the hand of the mighty viking was held by a sword it became a fishing rod on the shores of the aegean the hand of the prophet was supported by a staff just as there is no language without man there is no soul without language Time weaves its web to bind the language, man and soul

the womb of many nations labours over a million years to give birth to language professors and cretins in village and city make their contributions to the definition of every word when in some future age the galactic hero of science fiction lands on earth he may report to his superiors that an empty ant hill final cultural product of generations of ceaselessly labouring workers is the soul of the ants and after emerging from the echoing vaults of a library he may conclude that language is the intangible soul of mankind both the mound and the word products of a mysterious purpose which their teeming labourers could never have known

language is the whore of babylon she is not satisfied with the impotence of a gaudy peacock she despises the antics of chattering monkeys not for her the tedious mountings of the bull the thrusting stallion fails to satisfy her greed she tolerates no favourites all must come to her embrace the king must kneel to kiss her feet while caliban enters the mount of love

it was not men that built the tower of babel but language though beautiful she was old her womb was barren so she sported naked in the fields by the city because in her loneliness no man could satisfy her greed she lay there wanton till men of all nations had entered the hungering vagina of her love and now that she is heavy with seed no one knows if her child be demon or angel when the day of labour comes will the father dare be present or will the child be born alone

gypsy girl you are mistress of intercourse with words you have felt the probings of the sensualist you know the caress of princes the slavering of servants the mastery of kings and still at nights you come to me