He fashions dozens, but how can one conceive
of such a multitude? A duet or trio
would be a bounty, and far more conscionable.
The eye was broken at each point of the compass,
smothered in yielding curves and cloves, the weight
of redolent bodies tinct with maidenhair
so finely golden; reft of maidenhead,
this gluttonous throng of sodomites would sooner
suffocate the man than leave him sated.
Only in that transcendent world can one
surfeit of such a feast, where faces dimly
smile without identity, red mouths
sickled in soft laughter. These voluptuaries
are paranormal, their concupiscence
classical, a lydian architecture
polished to the pillars of their teeth.
Our timid sensualist in such environs,
supine and tight lipped, naked as a cupidon,
awash in spittle of his concubines,
slides toward sleep. His doxies dissipate
and loom disfigured, a diffuse amalgam.
Oddly enough, his morphean visions lack
prurience altogether, being rather
random labyrinthine mysteries,
replete with treacherous spiral staircases
endlessly descending into darkness,
or pointless pivoting in mazy houses,
panicked opening and closing of doors
in windy rooms with shuttered windows. Dreams
of the conscious kind, made of volitional ego,
is our material here, not slumber's jetsam,
the fast forgotten junk of sleep. He wakes
and lives in purity among cold stones
and loamy garden pathways, under trees
in wonted desolate shadows, kin to flowers
that throng in numb congestion, chafing hands
in pockets barren as a mendicant's,
lost in umbrageous eden, unaccosted
by woman or serpent, unattended by angels.
Sagacious virgin, in reticent abstinence,
bookish and unbecoming, this erudite
fisher of tomes, his fingers black with text,
grows more myopic in morose degrees.
Obscured in self inflicted quarantine,
a creature dieted on intellection,
sequestered spirit, carnate poltergeist,
he looms in silence in his corridors,
a gaunt ensanguined ghost, a visitant
in transient vagrancy whose small migrations
unsettle dust and mist the windowpanes.
And yet our pity would be squandered on one
who never sorrows absolutely, never
remains disconsolate nor ruminates
in anguish long enough to feel its sting,
who slips in fancy out of deprivation
and lives, the master of his empire, vain
and sated anarch of his hollow heaven.
of such a multitude? A duet or trio
would be a bounty, and far more conscionable.
The eye was broken at each point of the compass,
smothered in yielding curves and cloves, the weight
of redolent bodies tinct with maidenhair
so finely golden; reft of maidenhead,
this gluttonous throng of sodomites would sooner
suffocate the man than leave him sated.
Only in that transcendent world can one
surfeit of such a feast, where faces dimly
smile without identity, red mouths
sickled in soft laughter. These voluptuaries
are paranormal, their concupiscence
classical, a lydian architecture
polished to the pillars of their teeth.
Our timid sensualist in such environs,
supine and tight lipped, naked as a cupidon,
awash in spittle of his concubines,
slides toward sleep. His doxies dissipate
and loom disfigured, a diffuse amalgam.
Oddly enough, his morphean visions lack
prurience altogether, being rather
random labyrinthine mysteries,
replete with treacherous spiral staircases
endlessly descending into darkness,
or pointless pivoting in mazy houses,
panicked opening and closing of doors
in windy rooms with shuttered windows. Dreams
of the conscious kind, made of volitional ego,
is our material here, not slumber's jetsam,
the fast forgotten junk of sleep. He wakes
and lives in purity among cold stones
and loamy garden pathways, under trees
in wonted desolate shadows, kin to flowers
that throng in numb congestion, chafing hands
in pockets barren as a mendicant's,
lost in umbrageous eden, unaccosted
by woman or serpent, unattended by angels.
Sagacious virgin, in reticent abstinence,
bookish and unbecoming, this erudite
fisher of tomes, his fingers black with text,
grows more myopic in morose degrees.
Obscured in self inflicted quarantine,
a creature dieted on intellection,
sequestered spirit, carnate poltergeist,
he looms in silence in his corridors,
a gaunt ensanguined ghost, a visitant
in transient vagrancy whose small migrations
unsettle dust and mist the windowpanes.
And yet our pity would be squandered on one
who never sorrows absolutely, never
remains disconsolate nor ruminates
in anguish long enough to feel its sting,
who slips in fancy out of deprivation
and lives, the master of his empire, vain
and sated anarch of his hollow heaven.
