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Nicholas David Klacsanzky : Poet and Pundit

While Examining a Photo of My Master

While Examining a Photo of My Master


The crown sewn unevenly in her bramble hair,

perfect really, the tilt making us believe in her reality.

Lips like a faucet, for the drink of surrender.

Laced with jeweled-flowers, red as her forehead,

red with auspiciousness and the care of killing

off the non-zero beings. Skin loose as to sink

into your mouth, to devour the lumps of surrender.

The brows swerved in an owl-lift twitch;

joy, despair, formidable helplessness – are we here?

it glazens, with the light knocking our eyes

as ping-pong would in heaven, played by a poet.


We need to know, says the nose-eye, lax

for destruction in an instant – swaying to ease

as we imagine her breath out of horse-nostrils. I would

love to kiss her cheek not for the taste, but for the burial

of my face in the angel fluff; I count myself lucky

as her chin, dipping to nudge all life to ending

ventricles – we can cast aside all differences. The throne

and I sit, with her, staring kindly as to know –

it is the eyes that know, she whispers from her ear.