Alec Derwent Hope
Reading the menu at the morning service:
– Iced Venusberg perhaps, or buttered bum –
Orders the usual sex-ersatz, and, nervous,
Glances around – Will she or won’t she come?
The congregation dissected into pews
Gulping their strip teas in the luminous cavern
Agape’s sacamental berry stews;
The nickel-plated light and clatter of heaven
Receive him, temporary Tantalus
Into the Lookingglassland’s firescape.
Suckled on Jungfraumilch his eyes discuss,
The werwolf twins, their mock Sabellian rape.
This is their time to reap the standing scorn,
Blonde Rumina’s crop. Beneath her leafless tree
Ripe-rumped she lolls and clasps the plenteous horn.
Cool customers who defy his Trinity
Feel none the less, and thrill, ur-vater Fear
Caged in the son. For, though this ghost behave
Experienced daughters recognize King Leer:
Lot also had his daughters in a cave.
Full sail the proud three-decker sandwiches
With the eye-fumbled priestesses repass;
On their swan lake the enchanted icecreams freeze,
The amorous fountain prickles in the glass
And at the introit of this mass emotion
She comes, she comes, a balanced pillar of blood,
Guides through the desert, divides the sterile ocean,
Brings sceptic Didymus his berserk food,
Sits deftly, folding elegant thighs, and takes
Her time. She skins her little leather hands,
Conscious that wavering towards her like tame snakes
The polyp eyes converge…. The prophet stands
Dreading the answer from her burning bush:
This unconsuming flame, the outlaw’s blow,
Plague, exodus, Sinai, ruptured stones that gush,
God’s telegram: Dare Now! Let this people go!