Fallen

We suddenly languish, thirsting after another truth

—Georges Bataille


Too hungry to eat
you rise as if to shake off this skin
and wear another
go into the world a stranger

Yet falling down
falling in falling over falling upon—
Yourself!

every stream finds its way to the river

You’re not there yet
with eyes and back burning

you long to float
weightless and wet, weightless and wet
She, formless, flowing everywhere
her second mouth locking the first in silence

The perfect answer, according to Anne Carson,
who wonders if there might not be another
code of conduct, another mode than self
defeating self

You wonder too but can fumble no further
than your fallen self

The tongue curls in a question mark
but has no taste for itself

as for such surely wandering
world-forming wonder
as two tongues to mingle,
the only hope for a fallen world

Mark Kerstetter

Docile Bodies

Mark Kerstetter

To keep their minds off their probable fates
the men were kept busy digging trenches and filling sandbags

which doesn’t work. A mindless repetitive activity is perfect
for obsessing on a single thought

Better to lie daydreaming

Oh—but that might lead to a thought followed
by another thought and soon a sequence of thoughts
before you know it you have a mutiny on your hands

Better to sandbag it

But let the men sit down
And put some drugs in the bags