Solstice

Let us bring out the fine cutlery
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak to me of happiness and such fragile things.
Tell me tales of wine, and flesh, and of days when the dark goddesses
Poured forth their infinite mercies
By the way of flies and vermin.

Let us pour ourselves a goblet of music
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak at all, baby girl, do not speak at all.
Do unto me like they did in Vienna, or perhaps in Benares;
Twisting, turning, bodies, highways
By the way of human hives.