The Classical Limit





What generations sped by thee?
Who hast touched first and when the last?
I caress the cold warm iridescent shadow,
the profanation of desire and loss.
I course the calcite armour across your skin,
the flopping fawn hoof, the belly fold.
Whose sarcophagus?
Who kept your grace,
your ambiguous ambivalence?
Away, up and towards
the pleasures of the vine.
Whose death shall you resurrect?

Your lips pout in fullness,
in the life after death,
in the burnt thigh
of your father's wantonness.
You are man, fearless
in androgyny, quiescent
in pellucid pearls of pensive



The changeling Dionysious,
the face that moves mood on approach.
Now disdainful, bereaved, amused, pensive.
The dancer: a series in broken equipoise.
Thyrsus glistens to engraped cheveux,
the pointed leaves pinioned
towards feminine curls.
The soft seductive female flesh,
the shattered armpit,
broken testes and member,
footless in the marble bacchanalia.
Callicle Raptor's sarcophagus frieze of Dionysious





I praise thee oh God of Wine and Joy!
Oh master of Death and Flirtation!
A sacrifice!
A sacrifice to the guileless God!

What measure the rounded pain
to his invisible presence?

I am the empty
that is filled unto death for thee.
I am the clay,
the vessel that harbors your immortality.
I am the weakness that defines
your omnipotence.

Yet yours is the sobriety
that is my revelry.
And yours is the death that is mine.

Adieux my changeling,
my life is not even the dregs of your cup;
my words still, blood chilled,
not even a sip,
not a drop . . .


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