The Tortoisebyrd: A Scatological Eschatology

Words & Soundscape by ML Godin

The Tortoisebyrd:
A Scatological Eschatology

I sing of arms and of a woman,
Of armor new my shell,
Of beatings and a man,
Under covers, we yell:

Look! I'm blinded by the light!
Right, the blind card again?!
What?! are you listening to me? Deaf too and mute?
Nice. You unfeeling--
No Touching! Feel Me! No Touching!

I'm Not taking on any more blame from you
Not going blind or even lame for you
No more playing Helen for you
Not just another pretty face
Launching--
A thousand shits,
The Great Schism, a whole fleet of feces.
Thanks. Oh my god!
What god. No Gods here
Satan then? Really? How cliché.

How many heads on this beast?
Are we the whore of Babylon?
Have you no sense of decorum?
We are not discoursing thus.
You beast, you brute, you barbarian!

Goddamn this endless stream
Of conscious, antagonistic, agoraphobic,
Paranoid, paraplegic, verbal vertigo
Stop hen-pecking my liver!

You've strung me up with all those bitches!
Horny handmaids hanging there
Like doves--
More like ravens
Some birds of prey

This sparring speak is oppressive.
This mindless mouthing eats my heart out.
This war between us is epic.
Debilitating.
Deliberate?
Why? It is not desirable.
Not a homecoming or a win--
Not even a funeral pyre of possessions,
Of yours, of mine, of our determinate history.

Armoring now, slow & hard
A chimerical force with fleshy innards.
A Great Bird of Prayer:
Oh God--
Which God?

Please,
Guard the guts. Keep them soft
Let not the soul matter calcify
Let not these eyes turn to stone
Listen! and you will hear--

What? a trumpeting of last days?
No, my retreat into darkness.