I am the poet of the underworld
whose broken lyre,
like the silver strung harmonies
of Orpheus’ song,
no longer enthralls and soothes
the self-destructive acidic souls
that tread the gold-burnished
and torch lit halls of Hades.

I am the poet of the underworld
who has witnessed
the homoerotic bacchanalia
of Verlaine and Rimbaud
as they spat and spouted
free verse and rhyme
extolling the virtuous vices
of the dark and vulgar
underbelly
of the decadent existence
of late nineteenth century Paris

as I waded through
oceans of absinthe,
hallucinating
in fluorescent green
as the questionably imagined
whores and fairies
did the can-can
and striptease
 shaking their asses
and thrusting their pussies,
tits, and cocks
into the excited
and gaping masked mouths
and faces
of the aging
and syphilitic aristocracy.

I am the poet of the underworld
who can no longer speak
the words of the prophecy
and who will not bend under
the cross of martyrdom
for enacting the sexual desires
and proclivities
that the barren
and power corrupted world
deems perverse and unnatural.

I am the poet of the underworld
who has lived and will die beneath
the orgasm-ridden yoke
of the infected,
artistic, and poetic vision
of the tragically passionate Romantic.