ISSUE: Winter 2008
“Fucking Dante! Goddamn poetry-writing faggot piece of shit!” —Brad Pitt, Seven
The atmosphere of Newton’s elaboratory,
like a world within a wood. Amid gross weeds,
the steamy incense cured the censor tongue
blazing out fire scarcely night or day.
Page by galled page, the faint deliberate
monsters grew new and mathematical.
Nocturnal insects climbed the looser stars,
and even moths betrayed intelligence,
aware that chymical experiments
drew purgatory in the fall of tides.
The heron’s pantheistic trinity
chewed on the dry moon’s philosophic wobble.
Hell-marshes waited, green with theology,
the alligator’s cross and passioned eye.
