Many devils are in woods, in waters, in wilderness and in dark,
pooly places ready to hurt. . . people, some are also in thick,
black clouds. ? Martin Luther
. . .Masaccio to the Florentine Renaissance but a naught-
every man the same, St. Francis the same as a Jack the Ripper.
their rosy surfaces filled.
Like an Old Testament curse
he is loosed upon the earth.
Ecking out his pound of flesh
delivering misery in sordidness, he parboils the land.
A modern day Tantalus up to his throat
in burning lies,
his death is to live, in the contemporary sense,
the thousand cuts-
to bury the skies as a dread Caiaphas
into the contradiction, the snares of his being.
Measure for measure
his blond mane, pale scarf
are hallmarks of the doomed Dutchman searching out the
Coromandel;
like Cain stumbling upon existence,
he hearkens back to the original Murderer,
has sold his inheritance for a pittance
and by doing so has ridiculed the human condition
with his life charged obscenity;
his blond beast scowl curdled about respectability's neck,
his fang tussled face a menacing white cigarette,
the soul imprisoned jailer to his teeth, breath and brain.