Ah Seline, Seline

(Thank you, Keats, you are always an inspiration.)

Right! Over my shoulder, a low cuprous tone
Of Sol's salient demise illuminates blue slide
Of clear unsheltered skies. The moon a scythe of bone.

A gaunt grey matador stands grand before the scorn
Of Venus venom formed, she so transmogrified,
Spawned of sulfurous tome. A wit with razor borne.

Bright star so odious, horns of slivered moon,
In the infirmament of a starless black ovule,
A lone picador goads with dance from Grand Guignol --
Hell on a celestial scale. Spheres play a discordant tune.

Ah Seline, Seline, oh, no Shepard boy, I? I'm
Sick of your red overture, your black sundering air,
Sick of your palaver placed treacherous in time;
O vision paradisaical turned downside. Why care?

Signed,
Your toreador,
Expect a flower in the morning