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Venus draped in Tuscan rose

and the perfume of Eros

whipping peasant buttocks,

Every image a world.

There a cruel empress poses

dying signets in ambergris,

for her patriarch to come.

Bronze catamites trample the olive groves.

And when a feast prims for the golden-fleece,

the hunt ends with Jason cut open on brake.

And in the palace reed plays on Diana s clitoris

in a sauna hilted with golden leaves and mire,

reeking of pansy.

The patriarch shall come!

On the bitter backside of posterity

Bugles sound through dusk,

toes shine through boscage,

dragoons with jeweled leggings read

Mirandola to the wind.

As Ox roam foothills

Venice whirls in effervescence.

A sliver of alcove here

compels greater ecstasy than fin-de-siecle France

under pewter machines

past the time of Baudelaire.

Prowl upon courts

where acrobats in girder

up to codpiece

hang sunray over horizon

and Botticelli paints thrush

For patrons in far-away realms..

Plaster faced Luther

with burning flag and dogma

blights the land,

thus I relate to Helen with a heart for rich lands

my hatred for Christ while fanning her tamarisk hair.