Satyr Song

It means little to me now when I am rusting away,

that at dawn the infinites still roll out of our human beds,

that one time I entered down the center aisle

at the Comedie Francaise, the Artemis of Ephesus

on my arm, all organ of visions on her rows of breasts and me

"Who is the master of her 90 nipples?"

the public whispered. No single noticed I was in fact

a alloy of copper satyr, my goat feet, my tail, my set upright penis.

I loved confusion, chaos was paradise.

I ground happiness, so to speak, upon the ramps

and scaffolding of the Tower of Babel.

I danced holding a tambourine above my head

made from a brass Turkish sieve I called time.

Water, sacramental wine, ink one time words, passed through.

In advanced in years Rome, I played the flute on the other hand at the first sight

of my combed, perfum and throbbing lower half,

Lucretia thrust a dagger end her heart.

Later in Pisa, when upon the Piazza a colossal

New Testament was carved in marble in Greek

chapter and stich I danced across Matthew, John

Mark and Luke leapt to Revelation, stars flashing

from my hoove In the Basilica, virgins

lined up upon their knees in white for first communion.

A specific satyr, I took half a dozen from behind.

The wafers danced upon their tongues. Beautiful,

the little hearts of life-current on white lace.

The Tower of Pisa leaned away from me in disgust.

I holloed back at the mob of tourists who attacked me:

You will not ever put out the fires of Hell

with a nineteenth-century American candle snuffer

The devil is no single a French Canadian plaster loon

Frightened by means of my mythological smell,

a alloy of copper horse reared up, broke away

from his handler. Mares revolveed their hindquarters

to the north wind, br foals without the aid of stallions.

Born for blasphemy and lust, uncircumcised half-goat,

I made my way to the hallowed Land.

I am proud my and zinc prick was the clapper

in many a Jewish, Christian, Muslim belle.

I must have done something right,

Jew Christian and Muslim chased after me

throwing stones: onyx opals, diorite,

the glass organ of visions of their god.

I hid in the cool lawless night of Sinai,

my companions a snail, a skeleton of an eel

Wise man, remember each giraffe farts above your head.

What have I stolen from myself, I thought

How can I pay myself back in kind?

The orb of day and moon survive absolutely without conscience.

STANLEY Mos not long ago published A History of Color: of recent origin and Collected Poems with Seven Stories Pres A novel book, Songs of Imperfection, is forthcoming this fall in the UK

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Jul/Aug 2004

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