…but he forgets not
Paris in the 30s,
Not his good friend syphilis
Or the opium dragon clutching his
Smoke-engraved throat.
Dinners with Mr. Pound were so
Mondain, his every word an
Intermezzo of lime and rosewater.
When he scratched his deflated jowls
The lice there played about
Like spritely troubadours
encouraged by the thick smell of love.
Those were times when gods still
Sucked blood and humans
Feared their whimsical tortures,
Times when young poets sang
Drunken eulogies to Oedipus and
His good luck at having tasted
The fruits of his birth place.
Ah, yes, HH reflects on
Those days of wine and Rosicrucianism,
Of wit and untethered fetish.
Umbriate Press Poetry 