Salim Gold
According to Graves
I
My real face is a bull’s—a minotaur’s,
Long-horned, whose Lust refuses museums,
Who stamps and quakes a bone-china maze.
Our lips on par, strumming—or endlessly
Kissing, coil us together like two asps,
So we’re wed—like perfume and its wearer,
Rhyming through hours of minutes of mute sin.
II
Vivacious—salacious—each sex should be.
Too soon, Death bullies us into caskets,
And all our voluptuous dining ends.
Wine gluts; Love guts us: We thin as we pant.
We breathe—second by second—and then not;
Worms scald—vandalize—our scandalous flesh.
Joy is transient treasure: Come! Seize it now!
Salim (Pure) Gold!
Wonderful Salim! Beautiful images roll into one another as the lines unfold:’We shine best when we melt most’