Venus between Terminal Gods
A flowing gown between cloven hoofs
is swaying with dark flames.
Boyish as ever, satyrs dress every word
in the decadence of chrysanthemum petals.
Enter Venus clad in effete molecules
of the nightside black ink whisperings
flooding every space inside
the hexagon heart of a ritualized creation.
What of the fauns?
Malignant trigrams of charnel dreams,
the mountain goats are flitting like meteors
and tapping criss-cross lines of mirrored time.
Only consumptive beauty remains
with its all-conquering frailty mocking
life which strives for a piggish infinitude.
