Twilight-blacked I am, in my cheerless widowhood.
Am I the prince of Aquitaine, that my towers should thus explode?
My very supernova’s been snuffed out, and my one
shiny-tendoned lute has been silenced by DEPRESSION.
You who soothed me once: in my sightless tomb,
permit me to hear again the Mediterranean’s boom-boom-boom.
Press into my hand the nosegay that once gave delight,
bouquet where the scent of the rose-tree and grape-vine unite.
In me, the lust god meets the sun god; king meets downcast bard.
On my face is the hickey where Her Majesty kissed me;
in the grotto of the mermaids elapsed a chapter of my history;
in crossing death’s river, twice, I reaped a victor’s reward.
Now my lyre alternates between emitting nun-like sighs
and mimicking a ravished pixie’s raw, climactic cries.