Accumulation

12/16/88

There is a work in my hands 
and I drill it into being 
I build the blood into and make love beneath its 
bridge 
I carry men, women and children into it and 
send them into the glories of flame 
I refer to my gods in the ceremony of its making 
and sacrifice the bloody pages of my lineage 
I am the map it is blueprinted from 
and the relevant books are lost into its void 
The frivolous tests of my work dash me to 
the rocks 
to lie bloodied with the other challengers 
Language is not the thing for my work 
it displays the end in graphic detail 
and absolute silence 
no words are spoken 
no rhyme is fresh from the tripping mouth 
Erect your own analysis 
when my clit throbs up into its penis bows 
and I am happy with the representation 
but this happiness 
this complacency should be undermined 
devastated into what is left 
so the work can build on 
This work in my hands earns its living 
from each of the little deaths 
I breathe into accumulation