Billy X. O’Brien

Satyr’s Caul

The bushes are wet

and awake with it

A Dionysian satyr reclines

in marble
legs spread, exposed,
fingers crossed

behind his head

forever lying in wait

a postcard from

tucked away
inside Virilio’s bomb

written on the back in red:

I break into song: the logic of mourning is long

satyrs blow their pipes

behind bushes of ecstasy

Sargent’s Baila’ora dances through the trees.

ruled by running away
into the nearest escape route

Science and Medicine are constructs

a drowning man

flailing in the freakish Atlantic
social construct is less

than the complexity of any mind

Icarus falls then floats

above the fields of conversion

seated in rows: the gods of direction
joke and decide

with the nurses of despair

All the while:

A mirror disco ball spins
high above
My american stereo

return to SHAMPOO 38