‘Jesus Christ (dionysos)’ and ‘Fever’ by Walker Storz

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Jesus Christ (dionysos)

My veins glow
sea-green,
luminescent, bulging
They have grown
with wills of
their own, fat
snakes
Writhing into the
world with the sickly
vigorous force of
Birth—
God has spoken
to me
He is staring
at me from
the light fixture
in the ceiling
His eye bores
into me.
It is worrying my
flesh, inscribing
red angry
circles.
I sat there in the
corner with
my wine bottle and
shaking, ecstatic
flesh
I have suffered for
you, father. But
God did not
care. He was absent,
and I was
talking to his shadow
splayed
across the world; in
electrical sockets and the

faces of strangers
It is my hope that
you, Jesus
Christ, pale king,
Fill me with fire, make my
heart gold,
my feet brass, my
tongue silver; that you
take
my weakness and
sanctify it, make it
burn
It is my great
hope that
you make my
hope worthy of
waiting, that you
make the world worthy of
itself

Fever

Bright, bright
nausea
A bone
cringeing and
spilling its contents
into a toilet
My skin hot
and red as a
blistered, dying
star
The charred
sun sloughs off
its skin onto
me—h bombs,
Belsen
The light of the
bad angels
playing on a
wooden television
disintegrating into
snow
In this bed
in a small
yellowed attic
I writhe around
under the
covers.
It is so hot
I think it must
be a witch’s
oven
Yellow fat melting
into a
long gold
shriek
and I can’t
breathe, not

without ice
After an
interminable silence—
the kind of long
wait after you
beg for
help and then
give up on
any response
I slip into
delirium and
dream
I am still
invaded by
weakness, it
sits sticky in
all of my
cells
At my
aunt’s house
at Christmas
I carry a vase
to the table,
heavy with
pain and
confusion, even
in my dream; and
trip and
fall, throwing the
vase into the
air. It smashes
into the
shiny wooden
floor like a
crystal dirge
The sky seems to
open up
as it must have
for Prometheus:

In preparation for
an executioner’s
hand reaching
out of the
heavens to take its
tax

And I kneel in the
glass as my
father yells—
his face a
blurred mask of
high, cold fury
a silver bellow
pressing me into
the floor
I try to clean up the
glass that I am
kneeling in but
I am so heavy,
pinned to the
floor, my knees
encrusted with
shards and
bleeding
The party
paused—every
face contorted
slow and
fixed in aspic and
anger
I can’t think
beyond the
edges of this
circle
My mind in
its meatbox
retreating into

pain, the
conditioned aversion
immanent to the
broken cell
I am orthogonal
to the world, and
can never enter
it
So I must dance
around the
cross and
bare my chest
as an
offering
The malignant
chatter of the
party
comes back into
focus
and I bathe in
these shards
and laugh as
I stumble trying to
right myself
I feel a hand
In the small of
my back,
pressing me
down, then
another hand on the
back of my
head, grinding my
face into the glass
dust
Maroon laughter and
blood of the same
color, but
tinged with

velvet black, bursting
out of my face and
knees
dancing ribbons threading
their ways to a central
knot
dancing
streams running to an
estuary
I am a blunted
dagger and I
wish to
sharpen myself
Smoky, soft, red-brown
light
seeps into the
room from
under the floorboards
a surging
cold, grey-green
salt-water
maelstrom throws
me down
I struggle to
breathe and
find the center
A whirlwind of
ions, neither
friend or
foe
Now it laps at me
gently
As the crown of my
head feels
air

A cold wind
runs cold and
then hot
all the way to
Hell;
the prisoners
shiver in
delight. I am
somewhere else.

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