Lethe’s Banks by Frederick Frankenberg

 

The Inferno, Canto 32
Gustave Dore

I died. Cupid bashed my brains
with a club of hearts.

I awoke near a rivulet
churning up nacreous secretion.
The skies were mauve
and the blue grass had not one
diffident daffodil ruining it.
I sat underneath the
burning sycamore tree.

There stood a placid man’s granddaughter
in lingerie so small,
it had to be custom ordered.
A little girl of destructive desire
with a russet armpit
and a patch of tender hair
where her legs and hips met.
Her nipples in full bloom
in virile pollinated spring air.
Like mercury marinating in my meat,
there’s that poison inside me.

My Civic drove over
on its own self will.
I snatched up my target, the
little eye catcher, and
pushed her into the
passenger side.
She gave me a
vacant lascivious grin.

Lewd kids ran from over
the hazy hillock and
made obscene gestures
and degrading requests.
“Bring me, too!” they said.
“There’s not enough room
in the inner circle of Hell!”
I ejaculated.

***

Frederick Frankenberg lives in Highland, NY. @FredIsAWriter