O Mouth Fable

What can be shown, cannot be said.
—   Wittgenstein, from Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

It darkens in the bride
                    of God's groom, taking nouns
with it, intimate
dark part. Feeling part.
O Obedience like horse
                              trained to the bit, mouth made. Heresy. Here. Say
the mouthy to the bombast in secret.

                    Hum, Hem and Haw—
                    Pout, wry and yes, gift-horse it.

In yearn under the all-need: the language-place, vivid, vivid mirror,
                                                                              piece
of content you wound, sound and feed. Keep
thou slurred vernacular oral, please.
The means to mouth, to put words into, is yours. Such rivering-red back-talk.

As laugh on the wrong side, wide open
head in the lion's, yes, a movable feast and equivalent silence where the heart
is.

                    Where it muffins, where bees
softly blunder, pass phrase for phrase. The mouth
gave rise to the legend of mourning, mother-sick. —And wit for the reply,
wet, still sexes first. —A mouth once
ante-roomed defiance and luck, spilled
                                        its beans
all over the polished floor.

          Spits the image back, spirits away animals and children: loophole—
                                        now yarns a cock and bull story, rivers itself to its
                              sea—

we certainly there fable:
                              bazoo, muzzle, orifice, aperture, kisser,
she/he having, in
the open boat rowing of air, a sense of the world at bay,
a narrative of birds, swine-sow speech, a goldfish swim just under
the tongue    —such
slavery of taste, of hothouse—

O, still tells & tells the lies best of us.

Copyright © 2007 Elena Karina Byrne All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission