Allegro ma non troppo
I
Green drizzle day, the soft erotic weather.
I wandered, angel in the clouds of thought
With Plato’s opal metaphor of cities
And Aristotle’s fairyland precision,
Debated fortune, circumstance—when zowie
That waitress in the tavern brought me down.
Tiara lace on tassel of gold hair,
Trim-breasted, crescent-thighed, and tulip-ankled,
Eye robin’s-egg, impertinent moist lip,
Finger that brushed my finger on the winelist
Space whistled in the gyroscopic room;
Philosophy like wrens in panic scattered.
II
Hours later, Greek,
I knew your pathei mathos, victim’s knowledge:
Effeminate man, his eunuch mind caressing,
Plans all and nothing anvils. Dream’s a drifter,
Begets the blood-and-sex-devoid abstraction,
Thought’s elegant pansy lisping in the brain,
Theory that has no iron hands to grapple,
Or, less than brute, the fire and iron thorax.
Artist with fiji hair gets inspiration
The chips of marble thigh like bullets sizzle
Until in shop or plaster gallery goggles
With pebble eye the flu-inducing Venus.
Who sleeps with her has moan for madrigal.
The cretin stone alone is art’s eugenic.
Blonde darling is our thought or palsy, never
Thing of our hand, though hotly kissed and bedded.
If you would sound your mouth, O talkative artist,
Conceive your peacock soul before it was.
III
We play all games with counters not our own:
The fertile and sequoia-shaded planet,
The deltas of the blood, the cordage muscle,
The brain’s tight crumple of alladin blueprint.
For plane and snug amour, the kits are given
With full design, prefabricated pleasures.
We only seize; another planned and scattered
Mechanics of our lechery and grandeur.
When lovers
From chapel stealing nuzzle in the lilac,
Sigh (pretty fools) “Our passion, our caresses,”
Jesus, his wile succeeding, laughs in heaven.
Nothing of earth is nerved and reaches climax
However much our zasu palms are weaving.
Strip waitress, lonely traveler, strip and wonder:
See in the starlit eye, the moons of muscle,
The masculine hand of god who never dreams.
Leave a Reply