Luke Fidler studies art history at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois (USA),
where his work centers on the locus of medieval death and commemoration. His writing
has appeared in a number of scholarly journals, and he has presented widely on topics
ranging from Soviet film to phrenology to medieval tomb sculpture. He regularly
reviews books for The Economy and is co-editor of TAG.

For Geno Smith

"Blood in my"
engine. Broke
down eyes size
coal. Here we
foal shipsmen.
And Joni
Mitchell is
not welcome
under sweat's
purview. Tarns
slicked with
mountain spit.
To wit, the
light reprised.

My Body is a Maze

To denude the clouds
of musk, to let one's
spittle rust. The path
less licked is picked by
prudes. Unwavery,
white men course the bounds.
Never had the balls
for Belin sex. A
line of flat faces,
deft mandolins. Sweat
commiserates the tides,
their miserly tang.

Puck On Hunger

Eat, slip, snug postures.
Coined calm, the triptych's
carte-de-visite. Jog

a spiral sage-tinged
incantation. Out
for days, pump fake the

stopgap. I'm in full
support of Colter's
inscribed armbands. Torch

or pander, my candle
cures the four-year blink.
My panther browses

corpses with his stink.

Sumptuary Laws

I almost touchdown / but I fumble
- Shy Glizzy

True blue Supras steal me from loneliness.
Consanguinity's the rub for regents.
What I'd not give to sentence myself. Shorn
and held in cordons of kelp.
Beneath which I ply my wick, a kingdom's
slime to rake and pick. Stake all kings to rot.
The long snapper shuffles off. Might we graft
some grace to sweet his pot?

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