Will the wild orphan later hallucinate of the gods of the wild
Orphan self? Waking among mysteries with an insane gleam
Dragged through several sea-games that put a saint’s
Nailing to a cross to shame, or the lowering into flames–
The martyrs of and for– of anything that had no real meaning;
Everything felt tame to my uneven taste– even dew, even starlet,
Even clue, even Hamlet. And I could throw bombs to etiology tubes
That neither sanctify nor pardon the proud vehemence for violence.
And I could rein the magnet links that link the shelter of spirits to mine.
Tão sem valor– if I could have the spirits that knew not only one divine!
“Because, the world is hell. But we have a chance to start over
In the rubble.” “From this day to the ending of the world, but
We in it shall be remembered.” “But first there has to be a rubble.”
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;”– Rumble, all we
That are wee lost. Rumble, we, from the streets, to the jungles,
To the piers!
And I thrived through it all– just like in my promise.
And I tried, through it all, living as though I am honest.
And I perceived the world through anatomy, then through Math,
Then through astronomy, arts, paleoscience, Absurdism, aftermaths
Of many aftermaths…
Come, the end of the world, you will find me sitting, eating chicken wings
Inside the maestro’s strip club, being blown by my favorite, and two other
Twinks heralding my hard nipples. And I will listen to the world burning,
Through lifted ear-pieces, while all my glory is being shared and swallowed.
Color my body, then, the lights of pastures, of sin. Color my body red and violet,
Better yet, like the pastime I am. I am no sinner-pastiche. I am both artist and lamb.
(I hope you get to pray to Anteros tonight! I hope you dream a love like Antinous’!)