Leo Yankevich (October 30,1961 / Farrell, Pennsylvani)
How well he knew the wives of publicans,
come-hither smiles beneath the crumbling arches,
the lingering scent of unattended cunts.
He too was half mad, fond of garum, March's
sombre unforgiving leaden sky.
Yes, he paid taxes, cursing Midas most.
Like all false prophets he was wont to lie,
the wine upon his tongue his holy ghost.
So when they nailed him to a wooden cross,
two centuries before Lord Jesus Christ,
he did not shout in anger at his father.
He sailed amid the midnight sky, across
the Milky Way—foot, finger, hand and wrist
prostrate—till he himself could go no farther.
Comments about this poem (Saviour by Leo Yankevich )
Beautiful Paintings On Books
by Ekaterina Panikanova
You Too Can Learn to Write Surrealist Poetry
Spudnik Press is offering a workshop in surrealist poetry
Distasteful Fashion Shoot Featuring Author Suicides is Pulled
The spread is called 'Last Words.'
Autistic Pride Day
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings