Amos Weisz


Thymos, gland, light stone,
resurgent through the night of a wound,
loss, imperious, of an empire of pain,
cadaver of a house, angel of pride, spear of duty,
your unfamiliar fires toss out grief,
brimstone of guilt, attic rock,
dense, pale,
of the soul.

I sing you because contempt has seized me,
contempt for life, contempt for biscuits, contempt for honour,
and in this contempt I seek the jaw of my resolve,
to turn out the light on my voice, to eat my pride,
to flush the microbes of language in the cistern of the self,
and to incarnate the priesthood of self-hatred:

Stupid, stupid the leaves, the faggots, the virtues,
the stars, that handful of energies denied my cold wastes,
what does it want of me, Christ's dying face?
Iron republics under a halcyon sky,
Hatred for the process, pain, rest,
and the tornado clogged in the mind's needle.