A gangrel twist

Their supping heat
shuffles like their marching feet
each between their brother,
like the target they’ll hang,
who ate from his brother his ripe
limb from the ground and on it
once, simply once, on the ground,
and not alone they yapped their sound
and made each nerve a picnic.
They ate and what ate them
like the milk from grass which burns
slew them too at their finish,
ate them when they arose
and cleaned each other off with stones.

Each were geese then, heads on
slim necks swiftly broken by men
who leave well enough not alone,
well enough for bristly stones
on their blood mark in the energy
of youth, whose face once is formed
then is not, is deformed as soup
in the pot, soup in the ground,
never again in a nose or brow
but shaped to whatever holds it now
and what holds it is not a hand
hard on the cheek itself moist
with human dew, human salt,
now is gathered in the foreign malt
which holds the seeds of flax,
and the springtime flax will bloom
hands and feet, will bloom perhaps
in the figure of two torsos
and a knot of legs from the photograph
taken in a cold winter in which
two pilgrims joined each other
for body heat, was sweet sunder,
will make rise for sugar beets,
or if in humor for corpse flower seeds.


I much prefer the second strophe and am considering making this the final line: which meet like boys themselves in heat. But of course, that’s like a cheapshot.

~ by Jeremy on July 25, 2010.

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