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About This Poem
Opus Mysticus
Opus Mysticus
Let us enter... and be silent.
My insanity hangs on the wall with all the other Van Goghs.
Sleeping snugly between semen stained sheets
and saliva creased pillow cases.
Inundations and vivid remembrances
of days dead and hours traumatized.
You and the skinny one behind the wheel.
Whistling depressing dirges in D minor.
Your vituperative Mein Kampf of the ages!
She lifted her skirt and unzipped my soul!
Young children bathing in the quagmire of Eden.
Bellerophone on Pegasus riding through Hell's Kitchen
in the upper east side.
My problems are but pinned butterflies
quasi-embalmed in glass cases
seeking in futile
the sweet revenge of past indignations.
Where are they now?
The artists of Transcript Necco?
Of Zoot Horn Rollo?
They're down on the dark city streets
off in dark scummy alleys
jamming till the lights go out.
Elucidations.
Proclivities.
Paragons.
Intense disaffections.
She lifted her skirt and unzipped my soul!
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