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Literature
The Death of Venus
If there lived in the world a man
as rugged and as strong as I,
who could forbear with me yet go against,
who walked the black woods and the silver hills
mostly unafraid--
who savored salt and the lay of fur
with fingertips of dirt and weather,
whose lips rolled words like smoke, like fog-
I would creep into his arms in the prologue of the night,
gone sweet with the scent of new-cut hay,
alive with the nightjar's call.
Literature
The Farmers Son
We sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridges
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever
Literature
Orientalism
In the day, yellow sand
from the Taklamakan
coats the motorbikes
of your overlords
At night, this city's towers
gleam, a Chinatown of lights
(dragon gold, lantern red)
Here, you can eat
a Philadelphia roll
or a fortune cookie
with fictional
Confucian quotes
on the side
Or you can dive
into a Pacific of
specific patterns,
woven with
living threads
in wire cocoons
Don't get distracted
by the innumerable
neon kanji; trace
the tiny green
lights to the
computer shop
at the end of
the way.
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© 2011 - 2024 salshep
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