The eyes blue and upthrust into the glare of the camera and the lips joined in a simper. The butterfly of his tie perched below the collars, fluttering towards the part in his hair. The dark jacket flowing into the dark trousers, illumined on each upper leg; and the hands aglow: the right curled on his knee and the fingers of the left clenching his cap, the bill to the ground, in between his spread legs and the creases of shine on each leather shoe. To return to the eyes, pressed shining, glassy and gay with threads of joy and determination entwined.
Hell is inescapable bliss today: I watered the ox, I fell around, clutching three instants of grappa. Oh what will it do, I’d spill the wine over the flesh of a white goat for you.
Sometimes I think I am gay when I see rainbows, burls, or the Maker piling hay. Each sharp grain pushes through the world a thousand times.
The vandals are coming with their axe, to flay me at the corner of Larkspur and Mark. To drag me through the streets, to the park, where they’ve stretched out their big rollers.
Purgatory, heaven-redeeming bliss. I will walk on hot coals through the mist. The bees and brambles sting the earth is freezing cold. I’ll walk through the ocean, though it stings my soul.
Upon the way is a Pool of Time. In it I see my name, floating on a lily pad. Open the hours, open your heart, I fell into the water with a start.
To the gates, all inset with rubies. Emeralds and lovelocks. Plus mirrors that refract you from every angle, style, and phase. I am with a hundred arms in an ormolu haze.
The ox leads the way through the cloudbanks to the God of All. Lounging on a couch made out of curious metal. Picking his fingers with a harp, stroking the calico cat with the warp. On the ropes of time an ocean lays, plucking