slice and dice this bitch

I mean it, just go fuckin ham. I like the idea this poem started off but it heavily derailed into just silly, masturbatory wordplay. Tell me how much you hate it and then tell me how to make it better.

(the sack-cloth torn, white ash is scattered, the child is born)

It will not yield.

Despite my pleading and fist-to-chest-beating
It will not wheel or deal
In relinquishing meaning.
It will not cheat its own secret-keeping
Nor bleed or interbreed
With inferior species of speeches.
It will not teach me, nor acknowledge my seeking
But it keeps a gold eye on these proceedings
Watching my weeping, reading, bookkeeping
And vain attempts at sneaking into its skein
With undisguised disdain.

Yellow-skin-sealed.
It will not yield.

Aside, a token moon-like eggshell, broken
and crumbled beneath my curled fingernail
glued by oxidized blood:
shards of a fossilized veil
that might be mistaken, on a good day,
for fragments of castaway mail
and might be mistaken, on a blind-fingered day,
for snatches of song in Braille

from my friends,
waiting out back
toeing and and acting, eyes averted
(mine too)
down a line running oblique to the fact
that most of what we do
is meaning, diverted
a light that we all see,
but braided beyond recognition
or else absurdly inverted
into the yellow of a yoke we pull
attached to a skein unspooled
into which we pitch,
but are incontrovertibly girded.

tugged along by some giant way up ahead
whose footfall we feel, and fills us with dread
and the length of the skein trembles taut,
entangles and webs

but it will not yield.

But me, I spend my time inside, hunched
on a spare wooden chair,
trying to conjure a lunch
from an uncompromisingly empty plate.

On ink, 70% blue-dyed
nestled between meticulous lines,
broken eggshell aside:
the yolk, intact
unmitigated fact
regally sealed, obstinate, glowingly wheeled

(of course) it will not yield.

So I examine from alternate angles,
I falter, wrangle,
prod and push:
"core of life, burning bush
eternal tangle
hub of world's unbroken spoke
bud of my stutter, breath of my babble"
I choke, I strangle
"holy yolk! holy meal!"
I croak
"uncloak! reveal!"

but it will not yield.

under the great unsparing yellow-eyed stare,
no artificial fluorescent incandescence
can whisperingly unbend to unveil an essence
(that I only half-suspect, these days, is there).

No incantation of mine
no hoax or rhyme
can undisguise this
can coax or hitch its way
into reality, into the skein.

We are soaring through pain 
on clicking wings of clocks.

The safety hatch is locked.
You can't
jump off 
this plane.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/3vz91g/mother/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/3vrcfi/advent_ii/