Down the Darkened Stair

I inscribed my name
upon the pages of The Yellow Book
embracing its decadence
and throwing virtue to the winds
like the seeds of dandelions
to fall where they may,

I found myself on my knees,
surrounded by the faceless masses,
naked to the human eye,
all but my soul,
which had long before been laid bare
in the palm of your hand,

I became the feast,
like sweet fruit, proffered
to the thirsty in a desert,
their breath sultry upon my flesh
like a confluence  of winds
from all corners of the Sahara;
their hands, like sculptors
and painters, in whorls upon my canvass
with a heated madness,
each in different colours
as if  channelling
a Jackson Pollock painting

And from the throngs, I reached,
like Venus rising from the sea,
my hand outstretched,
my eyes transfixed,
and you led me
through the catacombs
to become Aphrodite herself
upon a curtained mattress
at the foot of Mount Vesuvius
where, at long last,
my thirst was quenched
from the fountain of your youth.

And then … I slept






march 2011