alexander the great, Pliny the elder, medusa, pompeii, roman mythology

House of the Faun

The pyroclastic flow of molten
Semen on skin and bloodied face
From twisted thorn-root, sharp shard
Of splintered spear-like glassilver
Runs down, oozes, intertwines
Congeals and breaks open three
Times before the pumice
Ground of acrid, dry cracked lips
And weathered brown-bronzed skin
Of the Pompeian bursts into song.
Flowers bloom and Rome yields
All is wet and fertile now.

The syncopated rhythm of 
Servile platitudes contests the
Undulatory dischord of epiphany
That Plinian scholars erupt
When recognising that Gods sleep
In dorment catacombs of honeycomb
Nectar and sweetbreads in deep
Halls under Stromboli, Etna and
Versuvius whilst corpus christus
Sighs down the gorge to see the
Town lit by burning martyrs
And Nero strums once more with joy.

The breastplate of the warrior is
Cleansed by the tongue and then
Wiped by the deep mantle of
Hephaestion who's seismic studies
Have led him to reading lava cracks
And preparing to be wiped from the
Mosaic and to subsequently appear
Only three times in three thousand
Years as a ghost of reformed tesserae
The black mountain of Vesta lies agape
In her virginial beauty only waiting
For the day that Venus whets her. 

It is within this fervour of anticipation
That our hero rides the rich tapestry
Of the priapismic order whilst maintaining
Deadeye on Darius who balks at the
Gorgon head whilst losing all feeling
And sensory perception as he turns into
Plaster cast from the ash layer but who
Will recoginise the features of these
Deformed castings and where will the
Hero ever discover the eunuch Bagoas?
As the flows reach their destination flowers
Die, semen dries and blood turns to water.

© Severn Dwyer. 2012

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