October 3, 2009

Untitled Chant Royal by exitbarnardine

Filed under: Uncategorized — mishari @ 7:30 AM

The Rake's Progress 3-Hogarth

You claim we must to ‘purer ways’ return
Or some infinitude of loss incur
Of ‘how to swerve abominations’ learn
To spill no seed and heed no serpent’s purr
Treat ‘those who would abominate’ with scorn
And troop upright, the lust within unborn
You’ve told me, many thanks, and told me straight
Of God’s sky-filling love, pit-filling hate
How we must heed this good and great design
Or show ourselves of life’s stern gift ingrate
You’ll prove it, sweetheart, sure, but first some wine?

Just one thing more, my judge, one small concern
A detail, maybe two, then I’ll concur
I full-endorse that we must pleasure spurn
We shed our license when we shed our fur
And troop upright, of luxury full-shorn
Face night with prayer, with ‘leuia greet the morn
But can you, please, the founding dogma state
Why our own bodies serve our souls as bait?
And why each instinct wiles to undermine
That perfect law that thrust us from the gate?
I’m keen to learn, sweetheart, but first some wine?

In Eden’s belly, fig-tree, frond and fern
First waved to gentle drum, then shook ablur
A cockatoo flapped closer to discern
A bald backside, sweat-stuck with leaf and burr
That rose and fell ‘midst moans that caused a fawn
To dash the garden through, all beasts to warn
‘The woman bears a strange and laughing weight
Yet cries to spur him on, not to placate
They heave and succour, curse and intertwine.’
The soil was tilled, made fertile by its freight
One glass more, sweetheart, then we’ll say Compline.

It’s late, we must theology adjourn
I hope you’ll not offence take, or infer
That I for cruder, pagan doctrines yearn
Or your Head Gardener rate as some voyeur
Before you leave, impurities foresworn
To tropic Cancer, I to Capricorn
I ask, I hope, you do not fluctuate
Your wine it seems to ripple, palpitate
A voltage, I confess, runs through my spine
There’s figs and olives, still, upon the plate
The bottle’s empty, sweetheart, I’ll fetch wine,

Then scuttle from the Word unto the urn
And all my joys and appetites inter
Or let me every gospel truth unlearn
My flesh takes them as slander, crime and slur
Your body’s more than chaff to spirit’s corn
Why starve the ruby vine to feed the thorn?
Your Testament will leave us intestate
Whilst mine will nourish, sweet as ripened date
Don’t speak, don’t wink to which path you incline
In silence, sweetheart, repossess your fate
Just proffer up your cup if you choose wine.


The path that leads to lover, friend and mate
Is choked with man-made walls innumerate
But fling your holy water to the brine
Nail up your creed in some cramped, dusty crate
And tumble into bed, forget the wine.


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