Polyhumnia and Vivunia

Bergamot, dew, poppies for tears,
and the thought, "My love will rise,"
clear his throat, set voice to me
or burst like an overripe fruit.

Or this;
a great cauldron will overflow from the East,
spill caution to wind,
(for caution both divine is human)
stir Satan to compassion,

speak in soft tonic utterances,
(For the delicate and tempestuous words
become leaven to raise life's elongated lids
of pooled contrasts.)

I pull back these knotted points of teeth
soured on mescalin tears.
Wail with a mouth of cotton, a stomach of glass.
Pray, curse, long a saying
from a corpse's expression.

A muse of this earthly abstraction
departs with hand in pocket,
laurel pulled over its rainy day disguise.
The con amore of pretty boy
nestled in a boudoir of pine and leaf.

For behind, there will be olive's left in drinks,
calypsos of shale drums and jeweled ladies
swooning to sirens high octaves
as flute's orchestral heavens reign
in their gypsy harps. A mottled con brio,
a lingering belle epoque, or an auld lang syne

played louder and louder to rouse the pallida Mors.
Before the psaltery ends,
before the biggest, baddest whore of them all
cries out her hallelujah, her shalom, her hellam!

We'll have one last crack at the graggle,
one last song for the departed
and one last tuneless chime
as you whine in your kilt of tin and bones.

David Sutherland


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