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Tuesday 10 June 2014

Anthony Seidman

Ponder the Grimness of Lust

Ponder the grimness of lust in this,
the age of its Falsifiers;
tally the dockets, the bank windows
dazzling as a mirage; and pity the flower,
a golden poppy, which can’t pierce
the asphalt which the steam-roller excretes.

Dark blade of my longing, the Falsifiers
howled ambulances while your lip
charted my wrist, draining me
until I wilted.  Now the avenue
clicks on its floodlights, and atop an altar
as well-cleaned as a urinal
in a steak house where businessmen
burp love through cigar smoke,
the Falsifiers have flung
my lust into the embers.

But remember the flash, the
edge of your thirst when it first
ate my wrist, and how I steamed
into the sweltering weather
that bleeds me so that they can not
resuscitate me, nor drain your poison
from my giddy, gurgling gullet,  
and don’t fear to celebrate
the stubbornness of lust in this,
the twilight of its Falsifiers.



A beast hunkers in my fist
and shivers when fingers open.

I freeze his fire in a forest
where wolves sniff afterbirth,
crack the bones, and chew the flesh
of spoor pooled atop beds of pine. 

Or slowly, with the patience
of a mole sniffing for light, or water
rising through roots until reaching leaf,
I warm his breath within me.

My chest trembles, not
from chill, not grief, simply
the beast shaking the bars, pacing
the dirt floor of his cage.

He is what licks hands from the other side of knowing.
He is the black tongue and singed paw.
Come peer a cold eye.  Feed him, for you must.


Temple of the Goats

The Temple of the Goats has fallen,
crows nest in the pediments,
owls crouch among the awnings.

Far from our plazas,
towers, and restaurants
with starched tablecloths,
the Temple of the Goats decays
in the purlieus of sleep,
outside the range of earshot.  There,

they enacted the rites, whips
lashing limbs, man and
woman licking their curds
in the cenacle where
the heart was rent in sinewy strips,
and lips twitched the Goatish tongue.

We are for the better now,
having forgotten the rites
and the blade,
though the wound still smokes
as we toss, turn,  

for don’t we still
discern the cloven jig, wine-
skins squeezed by the bonfire,
the trough brimming over
with something not carnival
but carnivorous?

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