The Dissident’s Lexicon Forgive me for giving you a language so languid; asleep and unrecognizable, a pile of “cheap, unrefined babble.” I am the grammar— the iteration of the darkest matters—I am the planner transplanting hazard after obliteration’s scattered you. My damage is collateral— lick my entropy, burn your tongue; scorch-in my words. Become. Share:ShareClick to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)Click to print (Opens in new window)Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)Click to share on Skype (Opens in new window)Click to share on Telegram (Opens in new window)Click to share on Tumblr (Opens in new window)Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) Related August 6, 2014 Categories: Poetry