Harley Lethalm

586 BCE where there’s fire on your skinI’ll compare you to a burning China dollbut on your lipsimmutably fierce redroils a mad Babylonand I can’t but weep as Jerusalemsmiles an arc of brawn flame Sartre As Filibusterer In the March a ringlet of flesh drew away from my body;May the bolt of my fingertip depart quietly fromIts impressive melancholy, and should it onlyDesign to pass through the little twilight gateWhere all tempted lovers compare the lyricOf sacrifice, the flowers will bundle into resignationAnd the corruption is beautiful:So let the outlaws and plain BoreasCarry you off into the whipping netsWith seven great sexual finsAnd trowels to dig you apartSo when they feed you an uglyBounty of pavonated lizardsAnd cull the damnation from everyFlock of mannered ghost,You’ll sip the tumors everlastingAnd grow sick with disrepairMind the amber shackles ofThe Age as it croons dull and dark -To this,My fingernails turn in farewellSaluting their bondage andFleeing into the mouth of PentecostSailing like subtle lords in a mad revelWhat is more nervous than this,That I should cower and war!The dynasty of Euhemerus is a clotOf scrolls and mythic prancesAnd perhaps Jupiter never seemedSuch a god, as when his tombRefused to bear the prophetAnd the dressing-gownWas a thing of suggestion;I’ll be kind and fatalI’ll practice truthI’ll lie and wait upon thisIntelligent focus of earthSoon they’ll dig a whispering trackWhich will form the banks andStresses of my divine bodyI’ll rule alongside the pigeons andThe saintly GreeksI’ll sing to you from the vocal grassesAnd you’ll have thought youFound me againDo not rest on my mountain, thoughYou make an unconvincing temple The Strength of the Harvest Scythes of beetles crowd againstThe whetstone of shipwrecked scionsAnd follow the auguries of theBreathless primroseWith daggered lips, outfittedIn the cassocks of cloves Harley Lethalm is a freelance bohemian and flophouse dandy; he oftentimes socializes with green conservatives, pinkos, elephant-trainers, and other survivors of nihilism. He prefers Shostakovich to most wines.