Nathaniel Anthony Richmond…
Stella slides under sheets:
and yet I’m her satyr,
by and by, at the threshold of the door,
hearing her sigh
(hearing her slipping deeper into sleep),
I am sick, sad I was
slow with seconds.
Little the strategist of Ulysses,
if death was pale, protruding
the depths of the sea
by the pillars of Heracles,
drowning with dear dudes of the deck,
I’d often wondered, would I breach
the waves, would I crest, and would I sparkle
for the sun, then ebb into the beach,
and would my wreck reach toward the smeared specter
of Calypso, yet she is striding toward a failure of a fish?
Far from feeble foundations
and negative conclusions of science,
I wouldn’t know how to breathe ether,
and yet addictions and doctors fall
till there is a new wizard ball.
And all which vex,
confuse and perplex,
push cross a circuit in current
where troubadour and lady succumb and devour
their itch in an actress or actor,
bare in bathos of burlesque, for each lonely stranger
seeking their pleasure,
pointing and clicking in comforts of home
on captured convulsions of special interests,
till I realize my reflection in the mirror.
O how desire pinches and tickles
to see me submit, to see me writhe in agony,
till the loons and crickets decrescendo
into larks and cicadas,
and I put my horns on a limb.
O what wolf I have become,
beginning my morning by the moon,
seeking a red cape of a nymph.
Mise en scene: primordial soup
streams onto a begging tongue.
Taking my bothers
into my own fingers,
yet there must be more
than this incontinence and ease,
Tannhauser en Las Veneris watches Venus weep
riding a knight, enslaved till she knows
he is hers, here and there after;
it is not the same as before the crusades,
a good shepherd attends a wake
of a relative faun,
and yet the romance remains in madness,
never as serious as Beatrice bled.
The romance remains in madness,
till she wakes and I rest my head.
The romance remains in madness.
She tastes the salt of my ear.