I dreamed I sailed alone down the river Hebrus to the island Lesbos where I found sudden love at the center of a liquid mirror that reverberated with the clear perfection of my face—a sweet face with angel grace as done by the master hand of the world’s finest Victorian painter.
The morning sun behind me poured my shadow pink and blue and naked to the lakeshore where water nymph lovers made this beggar maiden their queen. They presented to me Pandora’s wounded body in a red world flashing decaying sounds of war, whereupon I ordered all sentries to burn their weapons and to lay Pandora alongside the head of Orpheus in the garden of Cupid where Psyche still waits for his kiss beneath a pregnant sky of stars ready to sprinkle down upon her bosom.
Then I tended Pandora’s wounds around the weddings of children finally thirteen, and forgave Apollo of his crime. For Apollo stole jazz from us before, between and becoming the lies of the dark man who painted himself white. His broken lips never spoke jazz or placed his emasculate hands on the beating heart of poetry, or made a right move in all his life out of the womb.
His time was winter constant. He ate and copulated ecstatic with money and politics—year after year of untasted sweetness in the mineshafts of disregard. No love, no knowledge, no concern for the smallest certainties. He showed his giant genitals to the shrews in the subway and dreamed of scattering his semen to the ultimate cunt for a name and a place for him to be determined later by the jizzum in the dark alleys of the unlived.
The lies from the dark man were full of tragedy trembling like a diseased dog and starving like the world in its ultimate nervous breakdown.
And in my sainthood, I healed all hearts and flesh of the dark man’s wicked church and took away the hour that would be winter eating the earth forever.