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