Would cicurate the stormy fens and moors
And outlast all the deranged kings
And sullen daughters
That literary Lord of Flies.
Error from error spawned,
Always hideous in protean forms:
As Satan’s Dam, Chaos,
As Circeformed Scylla,
As Dante’s Purgatorial Siren,
Spewing our fragments of book and bone.
The composite, then, of this errant,
The ancient wanderer:
Through the deserts of time,
Of his soul, lost in that Black Kitchen
Where the Philosopher’s Stone was his,
Where the books were finally burned.
Consider these fragmented remains:
The hero stitched together
And Musical Tristran,
Excused from immediate death.
Manfred and the Three Fausts
Excused likewise, dramatically;