Dancing Scarabs
the parisian green fairies of Paris
came riding in on the star of inception.
sliding down that rabbit hole to the milky white palace,
inhale the bitter breath of connection.
on the scarabs’ cycle, transformed by the living amulet
once worn upon the wrist, louching sweet little silver bracelet.
sterling ouzo, who wrote that ominous toast to screwtape?
who sent me to this deepest secret dungeon?
who understands my hamartia? grace, guilt, and gastronomy
here, in the dark oubliette, i almost forgot!
the white light that pierced through the top
splayed out on such luxuries, fine furnishing, sweet delicacies;
it held hold upon my wits as if in a reliquary
carved of wormwood... rich, warm, and dark.
we slept all day until the owl awoke to the last lark.
dancing like tiny midsummer fairies
on an ever changing fine china tablescape
set every evening for a grand revelry;
scarabs joined in as we tasted the delicate landscape.
tonight, upon golden brocade tablecloth, the still life came alive!
beneath a vase of moon lilacs in eggshells drenched in tea of ceylon,
strong voices echoed. giant hands served vintage red wines,
sparkling from high above. secretly we shared their bounty
partaking in leftover corners of scrumptious chateaubriand.
the scarab to the right of me blew the breath of life...
in a dreamlike adventure i saw my past and lived it right.
the scarab to the left of me blew the breath of death...
a lucid nightmare recurred where the meaning of the scarab crept.
concealed behind curtains, the jester danced rebirth... see the court does yield.
the becoming became and we met again in reflection on the Champs Elysees’
al fresco no vagaries of weather with virtuous Joy on Elysian Fields.
