language deconstructed

Who taught him words — need,
that terrible master, chalk-dusted hands
permanently ready to strike the cheek?

Perhaps he has no words, words
being creatures of the shared, crablike
critters that scuttle across space,

that slide down the conch ear,
like children enjoying the water slide,
until dunked in a gasp of thought.

Eyes, body, skin and smell, hold the links
forged with the spoken word
into a chain that binds each to the other.

He, alone, needs no such linkage,
is mute
as he endures the pause between visits.

Has he thoughts
then — or do they, too,
need words?

Perhaps time is perpetually about —
a pattern that ensnares him,
constricts him as ideas circle like sharks.

Or time is a flick of the switch,
He is off, he is on,
waiting, rage, back to waiting, so on.

He may howl, as if he could see the moon,
scream pain out into the darkness,
sound to create a chance of light?

Perhaps he throws stones into the dark,
the clink of them hitting
seconds to hours to years passing.

Or he uses stones to sharpen his horns
so despite the boredom of time
they remain as sharp as his unspoken rage.

If he had words
could he have unraveled his rage —
or is that the tale’s sadness,

inherent in his plight
the dark as a constant companion
he must always succumb?

If he thought, his thoughts might,
for a time, confine the rage
so that it simmers like an unused cock.

In the end, though,
his thoughts fail him, as thoughts must —
when left alone they create madness.

No matter how many time the rage,
no matter the times just after the blood —
the regret, the promises, new beginnings

he sits amongst ruined bodies,
innocent lunges squeezing out final words
he cannot understand,

the smell of decay pressing against him,
like fingers poking, asking the question
he cannot answer

all that persists with the beast
left in the ruin of bones is the wish
he had the words to find solace.