camarilla

 come gather round
 and see this idol i have carved
 it is the image of a spleen
 pretending to be a ghost
 but it is also a hiding place
 for any number
 of sympathetic horrors
 cities seen
 as ruined and paralyzed orgies
 old hats that remind one
 of the long dead revolutions
 of long dead friends
 brains fitted with spider-like
 horlogeries chattering out irreparables
 and ear parables
 to grotesque livid vir-meryonic skies
 crystal pure mornings
 in which ecstatic drunkeness
 has been imprisoned by
 the infinitely sad correspondence
 of modernity and antiquity
 eros and the skull sitting together
 as absinthe drinkers
 their cracked quartzite goblets
 rounded by elaborately scrolled
 oval windows
 which allows a silo-like viewing
 of their luminous orange piscine roe
 monos and una playing once again together
 laying cards on a table
 portraying mass assemblages
 ideal spleens
 veiled magnifying glasses
 under which raging bells break loose
 with the pregnant simplicity
 of blue immensities
 bells which are the re-purposed
 and replicated image
 of the pitcher of the danaides
 their holes
 replaced with eyes
 whose only interests
 are the blinding flashes of the intellect
 quelled into rancorous clamavi
 by the drubbing
 of the angry mobs