Out of the mouth of button-blossom mescal bud,
out of the mouth of a burning, bat-lit Teufelsee,
out of the immense and sexual revery of the bayeus of the mind--
a frantic phenomenology of fire--out of a trembled
dream-state press of kiss upon the fonatanelle,
out these zirconium hills, crowflower steppes of Pinchbeck's headached
anitidote to perfect, scalpeled world--a thrust towards Zarathustra--
the Pleiades seen from the overhead vault of 2010,
out of the girdled undertow of one spagyric intellect,
out of the voiceless knoll that circles a Persian hell,
come riding on Appaloosas the gentleman prince of darkness
and his famulus, wrapped in a cloak of scarab-amulet,
come portrait of the artist as Faust's familiar,
through mephitic gases of the blasted heath of Zaragoza,
double-helixed War and Fury, wrath and rapine,
soldiers of Napoleon crooning to lose their bawd-queens
back in Toulouse, as the incubus sates the chaise
of cool-head virgins and lathes a crown of lustred
hymen in upon our newlyweds, a trickle of soot
down one crusty promontory so flushed with zoia,
trilobites, that to incubate the salamandrine candle-smoke
of dawn would burst the very seams of second planets.
I see you fly, and oscillate, to the querulous fizz
of my sweated lip, to ostrich in on every spadix of the lily
found upon this slackless frontlet of the earth.
I have to lip-read whatever duende's here to last
a lifetime-here quintessence of dust
spirals out the phlegm of the son of Lilith,
fish-breath brother to Leviathan--O Mahu, Modo
fallen angel Asmodeé, you cinch a man between your
pin-webbed trident feet and dowse about
for Ibsen's kingdom of the rose! Here on Castilian soil,
now that now is all there is, you cast your lots on
Noah's drunkenness, swooning in mull wine and yellow slippers
to the witches of Echidna, self-doomsdaying
the only song a deaf can hear, the surdic cadences of ice.
You--black Aphrodite--quintessence of the cur,
take my two souls (my flying skulls, two halves
of the egg of the new-parched earth) and rocket me up
to Thumbelina's moon, to the hilltop garden paradise
of bituminous effluvium, where the yes of the red eft
as he enters the lake of fire beyond the picture plane
will rant, rankle, crack and pitch, and then deliver me.