I speak a hundred languages

I speak a hundred languages
not well
not as a cultured native, and
not even as a well-studied visitor, no
but more like a thug
Like one who spoke
his own language,
but with contempt
with a twist in his face
at home with it, yes
- but like one at home
with squalor. To whom bitterness
made truths of lies
I know not why.
The words come to me
like strangers,
and I use them. Full-knowing
how to use them, but not knowing
what they should have meant
if better used.

my gift is a curse,
not as in some great cosmic burden, no
I mean simply that profanity
has a peculiar
fluency.
From my tongue,
spring tongues of others
as if I - a medium, by they possessed
- am entered into, by spirits
not foul, but certainly uncouth
I know not why, or who, all
they leave me is their tongues
and the words to swear by
they died, perhaps,
without cursing the world enough