In the words, hell lives.
It rises on puffs of invisible incantations,
builds cities out of our bones,
sewage systems out of our bowels,
and broadcasts from the blood pulsing,
gushing through our veins.
In the words, hell lives.
We speak in nouns, we spew verbiage.
We choke on adjectives, struggle to find the right words.
Words clutch at us like frightened fingers
reaching through bars for the guards who stroll by
just out of reach, refusing to give us the key,
billy club slapping into palm.
Words, words, words
sprout like seedlings determined to bear
blossoms, bear fruit, bear life that we might live.
We sniff the scent, we lick the juices, we live.
Birthed by verbs, our tongues wag, and we live.
We pontificate, and we live.
We make promises and live.
We raise our voices standing on pedestals,
on soap boxes, on principles, and we live.
Hell lives in the words.
The careless, cruel, crush of opinion,
sales pitches, and fraud whispers
sweet, sweet nothings into life,
into the hell that words
breathe into being.
In the words, hell lives.
Change the words, hell dies.
Burlesque Press 