Fall 1981 • Vol. III No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 1981 |

High May

God and the devil dance amid the flowers. The air has the rank smell of sweet oat stalks. Revel and high riot soil the warm hours. The little capers wield their innocent forks. Heaven has been quite overcome. Her blue Is the blush of ichor; her private parts Are tickled by the rising vinelets, who, Sharp spermazoöns, pierce the Egg like darts. Everything's upside down. The haired god, Pan, Has split his pipes, consented to be born Again, in a manger, to ransom Man. Jesus has got quite drunk, and now has torn His loincloth from His loin; He must go sing Over the green hills, in the gold morning.

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Heroes

By Frederick Turner

God and the devil dance amid the flowers. The air has the rank smell of sweet oat stalks. Revel and high riot soil the warm hours. The little capers wield […]

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