Caligula aches in the deep, bending the mantle

Eyes peer out from gored lids

Wrapped feet and groin and sentencing arm whimsically rend tectonic seams

Whole segments split and drift

Others flip, their cities now weathered in flame

Hell’s skyline cooling in the autumn air

A red letter day, consecrated to the arts.

The whistle sounds as the sulphur and dust and heat begin to sicken the sky.

I have convoked some poets.

Bachantic forms invited to ring the world. Howling in the base. To join the fray.

But in time glass hooks carry off

Each to their own cloudy cell-

Strings of lips and hips and tongues slip up.

One eye rolls briefly to the reel

And it’s line-



The Good

We, fated

This Truth

Our God.

Snared and writhing muscle flicks at air- a show

The whistle sounds

And those with burning feet and lungs

Gaius’ lamb

Scipio, preach absurd and love

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