Aleister Crowley was just silly.

by Ryan Nardi

One morning, Saturday night,
normal enters your faith;
no more end in your time;
no moral emptiness bates.

Seconds pass, winding round backwards,
especially those deepest in blood,
especially the arms beneath tractors.
Essayists retype it: Hate Crime on Mud.

Catapults capture the essence of cowardice.
Actually, buttons are rather more accurate,
accurate like the lithe legs on the powerless,
actually like the lithe legs once immaculate.

Finally, yesterday maybe, for starters,
ifrits invaded our tower out of nature.
I fear arrogance aired out the larders.
If only courage could bruise these creatures.


Posted on 04/16/2008
Copyright © 2024 Ryan Nardi

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Richard D Frederick on 04/17/08 at 01:50 AM

it makes me think of silent fields and empty skies...

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