Books Original Writing
4 Poems by Anthony Zanetti
By Anthony Zanetti
Jun 12, 2007, 10:20 GMT

Dynamite 25

The birthday candle unravels its wax—
unfurling the curve that shatters its graph,
it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.

A core, immortal, wills past—to its pax;
as grain culminates and unwraps from its chaff,
the birthday candle unravels its wax.

Unpinned from the wick, it bolts and unpacks,
as motion unsnaps from a still photograph.
It rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.

No breath from a wish can cool its attack;
when each note of song sparks from the staff—
the birthday candle unravels its wax.

Lethal: the drop from the sweat on its back,
its shock vaults through octaves and Richters a laugh;
it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back.

A sizzling blue vine writhes through cold blacks;
ecstatic—as ecdysis jettisons half,
the birthday candle unravels its wax;
it rockets to Blonde—as man shimmers back

******

Façade of a Montreal God
photograph of Fascist HQ, Rome

I’ve stabbed a flag into the Fascist
March eye. You make the bullet
cry, you make the nation
sing. A sovereigned head on a coin,
the shallow inks of wings—align
to remind me: I’ve chosen again. In the city,
at the rally, they shout: he is strong,
il est fort.  I find myself chanting along;
I can’t abort. Gods trapped
in a head—we are everything except free:
the azurite Italian, the glittering Mussolini—
orating and exhorting—mathematically
operatic—your head suspended
against the word repeating: si si si si

******

         I Give Betty Smith—And Live In, But Not With

                  Coffee stirs me out of you. Tired
                  Of shyness: I type to my vox.
              Boxed in an office—lust must wander
                  Past—to last, as literature
              Manifests immortality. Many leave me
                  Flat—as a thumbtacked Alanis,
            Or the glass panorama the train tries to pass.

                      But your visage enriches;
                      Into poverty—reaches
                      And travels a song—
                      A Brooklyn: bygone.

                  Through me, she writes you—
                     As cities soak streets;
                     As pines sew their green.
     My gift knows you better; it knows what to do.
                    Artifice excites—writing
                         Of me: in you.

******
          

                                The Whirlpool

         You stare from the wire that cuts sky from brine.
               Effeminate desert, you thought it benign;
                  But inside—I collect corals & spines.

               Currents twist as flesh curls to a fist.
                      Feel the form of my force:
            In the core of the vortex, concussion
                Is pure—the pressure of poetry
                       Waves into lines—

               Breaks. On the bottom: funnelled 
                              To finish,
                           Lies your mind.

Anthony Zanetti is a poet who lives in Canada. He runs his own literary blog called  Very Nice, Very Nice.