Caligula, like Nero, was not born neurotic (by today's standards) . They progressed to that stage through power, and money....
Ah Caligula, with puff pouty lips, I hear your trumpet call
out away across barren sands.
Have you enough soft silks, satins?
Have you enough silk, satin skins?
Cast away your wine...cast away your mind?
Or will you drown scorpions in grapemares?
Only scorpions mark passage to your palace lair...
sand arid scurry prints tick, tick. Tick-tock.
Timed den of mania proclaimed, maintained...
trumpet your sour lungs.
Ah Caligula, with pasty face, youth floats to the surface...
a bloated, gnawed fish, reflecting waters of madding years
vined, knotted, with temple whores'
pawing acquiescence for your poisoned touch.
Trampling each the other to hear nonchalant insanity
slithering oldness across your reddened eyes.
Have your temple whores an arched tail?
Have your temple whores attended desert schools
of privation truths...sought redemption in a dewdrop?
They sanctify your demoned darkness,
as you, theirs.
Your call summons.
I arch only in the desert
elysabeth faslund's Other Poems
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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