Poem: The Cellar


Life is the stomping ground

In which foolish actions can be made

The arena in which ignorance

Can be pitted against itself

In gladiatorial combat

To see who comes out he victor

But I already know the answer:

I will emerge victorious

Bewreathed with slain fancies

And a murder of crows

Who know how to seek out

The sweet shade at an inferno’s centre

At the epicentre of my dilemma

I could never find a more peaceful moment

In which to revel in my unkindled distress

Or the fragrance of the hour

We were caught In flagrante by ignoble watchmen

Imprisoning us, they threw us by accident

Into the cellar, instead of the dungeon,

Where we drunk our way to a liberty

Neither of us had previously imagined

I sent you a blessing; I sent you a curse;

I sent you flight feathers; and a blood-filled purse

But still no verdict comes –

We must remain

Drunk all the same

Drumming on the corpses of barrels

Filled with the blood of our future

Can you hear my hollow smut?

Can you hear the flatulence

Of my suicide sphere?

You pressed down on my

Shrunken stomach, urging me

To fart out my thoughts –

I resisted, clinging to the vines of propriety

That have strangled many of my dreams

Once a gentleman – but always a madman

Forever a frolicking satyr

Leaping around museums

To play the pipes of Pan

My ribcage does not engirdle me

Easily now. But we will drink

In the dungeon. And after plunging into

Another flagon, I will climb

The tree of cyanide

To see where its poisoned bowers