A contradiction means
You can’t blath two mouthfuls
In the same direction
At the same time.
Bodies,
they say,
Don’t wheedle around one another,
Nor slosh through,
But blot out blandly.
Ergo, Being is no more.
And, the result effectuates (or some such glarble)
A big nothing
Ballooning high out of word sight.
How
lovely the contradiction, they say.
They
could have said, at least,
That bodies rare at one another,
That charge is mace and poisoned lance,
The lean longbow, the flashing heliolith.
But
it’s rather like the Xing out of whiffs, they say,
As when a hand wipes away chalk marks,
And the space is clean.
And what was—was,
But is no more.
But
I can only wonder:
Is it the notion of a wild boar
Hooving an infant’s skull,
Or the cracking of an ox bone across my head
That sends me reeling when I hear—
A contradiction means
You can’t blath two mouthfuls
In the same direction
At the same time.
