The Alchemist’s Son
by Nathan Tyree
a few bullet holes through his argument :
they fall into gnashing teeth,
He holds the chair of Modern, ignored by the reading
public
at a university you’ve never heard of.
He does not play in Blood or
a hell of eyes and grey suits.
he dreams of
susan, a broken mandala
he fire sleeps with loss and fish;
despite this he will insist that he has never dabbled
in alchemy.
and into the teeth,
Death of the discontent
made glorious summer by the flesh
and needle, the rip of hell
a vast menagerie , they bleed into the air