A Show
Sisyphus climbed on his rock
to listen. The Furies wept.
Ovid
Blest we thought: archangelic aglitter
so much the jewel
And he as really alone: the cynosure the really
central gleam a star upon a stage
So we that throng
titillated by such ecstasies of sound
the peripatetic rise
the hesitant organic diminution notes
as natural as breaking waves
inhalations like an exotic perfume.
And we poor over-sensitized cows we are
danced and clapped and swooned
flapped our hairy heads off in glee
glad glad glad to be the recipients of such a joy. Oh.
Blest we thought
We closed our eyes
Never saw the serpent
that ate his soul
Never knew the journey
he must daily take
into that Tantalus of hell.