Wordsmoker

I thought I was communicating
over a spread corpse of linguistic philosophy.
But somewhere forgetful
to all life

there is some movement to be made.
All my other senses calibrated,
like balancing on a new height.

Coming from slop,
a gender-funny fish to model,
I understand how the humans fumble.

I cannot laugh
such an obscene pulse
unreturned by the muck.

I want to change
time, perhaps by
throwing it down to a proposal.

I could shake you senseless
from your wretched streets,
all your class, and your age.

You would look to these things anyway
loudly with each thrash.
It would seep in.

Ask me if I want to earn a dollar
for every wasted molecule
the dollar swallows.

A finite lost between the words

(however, I snap the necks)

of those who touch these places
constantly
without consent.