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CLOSE / Parnassiad

Peace and Other Stories

Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life

Old Silt
by Julian X  /  poetry  /  7 Dec 2007

The skies don't look like that anymore.
She regards him with eyes unsoiled,
in a manner paintings cannot capture
and that will not last the years.

When she lances harsh invectives,
each word surprises, stuns me to silence,
to perusal of each serraded syllable.

All hurricanes, generated spinning, already menacing,
burying our factories in water,
and all the cities are Venice now.

She left a copy of Utopia,
its pages all warped in the flood,
browned in waving lines like old ladies' hands.
I sit crying, grasping it,
the soil coming off in my hands,
knowing through tears this lost world was always parody.

I imagined then that it would rest, withered,
next to large, clean, mighty tomes,
unexplained on the shelf,
heart hidden in plain sight.
But when I moved, years later, I left it
sitting in an empty flat for the gods to play with,
destined for the rubbish bin or, by chance, some silt.

My wife knows nothing of this.

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The Annihilation of Longing:
He dared, the muses said
On Wordsworth and Romantic Assumptions about Poetry
Self-Exile as a Means of Preventing Prophecy
Objets de méditation
I Want a Girl Like Doctor Doom's
The Ape Cheers at the Bride's Vagina
l'Esprit évacué
But in Her Heart Suspects / And How Much He’d Like
le Carlin
God’s Five-Fingered Hand, American
Old Silt
A Post-Colonial Tea
Julian the Philosopher
Growing Chilies
The Problem with Such Self-Congratulation
Songs of Sadness 1
Songs of Sadness 2
Songs of Sadness 3
Songs of Sadness 4
Not a Song of Sadness
Songs of Sadness 5
Songs of Sadness 6
Songs of Sadness 7-9
Songs of Sadness 10
Unrealized Soulmate
Another Original
Letter to the Other Man