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Nicholas David Klacsanzky : Poet and Pundit

Stop the Ruckus Fake-o

Stop the Ruckus Fake-o


Curling chants rise and bellow

the mold of the mosque top.

There is only a blanket to warm

my feet, the stillness falls me 

further to furnace. Flowers bed my sole and

fragrance curls to my toe like the voice

that plummets my throat, heart, belly,

and sole, again. Transfixed on touches,

my head stays deer-fixed and potent;

lending my passion for slab-dinner and knocks

my thirst up to itself, over and bending

to his fragrance. All dead-white corpus,

this figment is slipping through caucus,

the unbending fool. Tumult is a passing

phase, unlike the mosque trills

squaring away the pounds of devotion

in kilter priest finger and pulled pregnant zephyr.

You work so hard, you say - in pounds;

do you see yourself? You reach for the towel

in pestilence, too early. Knock it firmly,

and deliver the devotion to me.

I will make you a cake known to God

and fill it with explosives. Take a depth,

and exhale the dot on your forehead: Love is a burden

if you believe in it and do not

become it.