Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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LK Holt

Survival 1:
Fragments of Hippolax


I’m cold.             Hermes grant me some clean-groined
pants and some palm-warmed coins
                        pelt as in fur, not pelt as in throw
they hurt O Hermes the stones


                        the dead-grape wine, the fig too-sunned,
the floury plum and the wilted mint,

put them just outside the radius of Bupalus’ rope
                        that diarrhoeaing goat

                        One man prodded his mother’s half-burrowed
hare as she slept and was precipitately smote . . .

Surely Bupalus is likewise to hell.
                         Get off me woman you clamshell

hold my penniless brown-arsed pants
while I go for Hermes with my own two hands