Une Saison en Enfer

One shot. In the past. A while ago. If correct. My life
Was one long bash where all hearts stretched wide
Into dry, leather maps as telling as the palm,
Where all waters west kept running as wine into the night

I pissed on Beauty’s lap and so found her annoying.
Silent, I smiled again into sunrise
And from the mousetrap broke my fast in an empty,
non-fungible absorption.

I have never pledged to do anything:
Again. Most astrally [sic] debauched.
A hyena that becomes a scorpion.
In spirit, I yawed myself in the mien

Of crime, through the pure tedium of existence.
With dead lips, I played the Devil’s trombone,
The Angel’s trumpet. In and out
Of that supreme (surréaliste) horror.

Ach!–have I said too much? Between us
Hell shines from its prison like the sun
Through prophets’ pierced eyes
Which our executioners keep frozen

In one cathedral’s stained glass window.
But precious Pope, I command you
A less stoolie mind, now, as you slouch
Into the same vile, prayerful pose.

Your hands clasped in the name
Of the Rose!–cold as marble
As if painted by the same con-
Artist(s): yes, it is you who have

Already chewed, who have already swallowed
The last seven pages of those things to come.