In the sixth gyre of the Age of the Good Remainder:
A multitude of believers follow the dog-headed beggar
Over darkening thresholds and under sheer canopies
Of ceremonial pavilions standing fast in the
Churning current.
The rushing darkness is partially broken by reflections
Of a shower of gems through the spiked wheel.
After arguing with a bull-throated pagan disguised as
A hermit,
The Moskeel in a threadbare coat and a crown of nails,
With the devil on a leash, gives up his kingdom
For a broken cup, a basket of quail, and a branch
Of oranges.
Entangled hands form into an inverted bowl
That hides an alabaster box that holds
The serpent's skull carved from green-tinged ivory.
3 comments:
Romántica terráquea mimosona he llegado a perfumar tu gladiolo. Traigo polen de Plutón. Aprovéchame guapa, no siempre se puede caer rendida en los brazos de un Adonis como YO, el andrógino más masculinamente femenino de todo el Universo. YO, la deidad suprema y vistosa de tus sueños. YO, la humildad hecha perfección. YO, la suma de sexo, desenfreno, comprensión, ternura y perversa inocencia lujuriosa. YO, el único hombre que no deja mojada la tabla del inodoro.
Oh wow... if I had a dime for every guy who has said that to me, I could buy my own private island in the Sea of Ou-Isciennora.
Hi how are you? I was looking through blogger profiles and noticed similarities, and found your blog interesting to me.
I have an art blog and am looking for new friends who comment and keep coming back are you up to it?
I hope to see you soon...
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