you have a holy man’s throat

the appetite of a hermit

the blisters of someone possessed

don’t tell me you’re not struck by those

tin visions, though there is a calloused

difference between the shoemaker

and the mining family spawn

you have that ecstatic gene, like

them, like me—only mine has been buried

in the rubble (stone, helmets and

Glück auf final greetings)

yours is intact

and working, although you’re not

the kind of heretic you want to be

nor the kind of heretic you think you are

your tongue carries the sermon

curls around the Latin and the Hebrew

fervently; your tongue

falls silent when the preaching’s done

when your hand takes over

in writing our existence is abundant

legendary and anonymous

just choking

on meaning: if you separate the words

from the hand you get Scripture

exegesis gives me a headache

so I turn to the lesser metals

and that picture of L-G in which

he looks so impossibly girly, you wouldn’t

recognize him if it weren’t for his nose, nearly

as girly as that guy from Beherit

indeed, many have mistaken Beherit for an

all-female band and been surprised

or impressed, until they’ve found

out they’re just Finns with long hair

(one spell broken, another cast)

in that initial reaction lies the trouble

so I looked them up just to feel

that bewilderment when listening

to Gates of Nanna for the first time

a cunt changes everything, I know

that—look at me, look at mine

at the end of the day I am loved

for my slit, the anatomy

professors by the gallows, necessity of

bodies, tin and your anti-flesh

musings, the near ditch, afterlives

and angels—coming together