It is in the Dionysian quarter, an aureate theatre
where an aurora of skittering femme-cerise blaze fathoms.
On the borrowed dais, fine grind cuts a lustrous emulsion,
the gathered sway the delicate beats of Heliconius Sapho.
The rhodium globe shimmies in obsidian verse,
modulating strata in body declensions, bitten poses,
breastfed rose divinity, onlooker seances of flutter.
The ending in bows and arrows and multiple choices.
Roll-upturned jawline sonnets thickening to the
will of woot and crescendo; and we were all witnesses.
I am the delicacy here, and narcotic, toxic and tolerated.
I bring my dependent longwing, fierce longing thumper.
Skinned from the Bacchanalian label, toredores, wit and
Madame, caught in flagrante delicto in a flinty notional
scree of couplings, make colleagues of Glass Octopi,
knowing that my butterfly is for my personal nourishment.
In rehearsal, I watch the Octopodes transparent digestion.
See Sapho longwings fade in colour and form and dissolve.
With phallic gilded lectern, and dais uterine, a Phoenix
aurora of femme-cerise, reborn; and I alone was witness.