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