By Anthony Zanetti Jun 12, 2007, 10:20 GMT
Dynamite 25
The birthday candle unravels its wax—unfurling the curve that shatters its graph, it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.
A core, immortal, wills past—to its pax;as grain culminates and unwraps from its chaff,the birthday candle unravels its wax.
Unpinned from the wick, it bolts and unpacks,as motion unsnaps from a still photograph.It rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.
No breath from a wish can cool its attack;when each note of song sparks from the staff—the birthday candle unravels its wax.
Lethal: the drop from the sweat on its back,its shock vaults through octaves and Richters a laugh;it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.
A sizzling blue vine writhes through cold blacks;ecstatic—as ecdysis jettisons half,the birthday candle unravels its wax;it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back
******
Façade of a Montreal Godphotograph of Fascist HQ, Rome
I’ve stabbed a flag into the FascistMarch eye. You make the bullet cry, you make the nationsing. A sovereigned head on a coin, the shallow inks of wings—alignto remind me: I’ve chosen again. In the city, at the rally, they shout: he is strong,il est fort. I find myself chanting along; I can’t abort. Gods trappedin a head—we are everything except free:the azurite Italian, the glittering Mussolini—orating and exhorting—mathematicallyoperatic—your head suspendedagainst the word repeating: si si si si
I Give Betty Smith—And Live In, But Not With
Coffee stirs me out of you. Tired Of shyness: I type to my vox. Boxed in an office—lust must wander Past—to last, as literature Manifests immortality. Many leave me Flat—as a thumbtacked Alanis, Or the glass panorama the train tries to pass.
But your visage enriches; Into poverty—reaches And travels a song— A Brooklyn: bygone.
Through me, she writes you— As cities soak streets; As pines sew their green. My gift knows you better; it knows what to do. Artifice excites—writing Of me: in you.
The Whirlpool
You stare from the wire that cuts sky from brine. Effeminate desert, you thought it benign; But inside—I collect corals & spines.
Currents twist as flesh curls to a fist. Feel the form of my force: In the core of the vortex, concussion Is pure—the pressure of poetry Waves into lines—
Breaks. On the bottom: funnelled To finish, Lies your mind.
Anthony Zanetti is a poet who lives in Canada. He runs his own literary blog called Very Nice, Very Nice.
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