Fergus, the poet, lone in his cell,
hunched over his little deal table, intent
on creating his song, what he alone knew.
At one horny hand stood Seamus, the skull,
with quills in his noseholes, watching as ink
blotches and grace notes pied parchment sheets.
Fergus’ huck robe was stiff with the reek
of dried-up excretions—nosedrips and sweat—
old pain and raptures from stanzas long past.
A bright bone-white sunglare came through the window slit;
fumes of high-holiness rose to the rafters‹
gathered and hung in the cold upper air.
He and the sun considered the vapors,
watched color and form curl and float through the gloom.
Billows and shapes swirled bright in the moment,
floating above them, with soft feathered edges:
roses and raspberries, cherries and grapes,
rubies, geraniums, scarlet balloons.
Round luscious girleens, golden-haired, laughing;
tumbled in cartwheels, flushed with delight;
floating around him, pink and inviting.
round luscious girleens, roses, geraniums,
loose and delirious, cherries, tomatoes;
luscious round bottoms and rosy round breasts;
trilling mad music, enfolding him sweetly;
vaulting and springing and singing and shrill‹
laughing and singing and louder — and shrieks.
Blotches and scribbles of bright blood on sweet flesh;
pink girleens pinned in the dark thorny thickets
sprouting from sleeves of smelly brown huck.
for one timeless moment the cell soared and hung there;
eyes of cold flint scattered nacreous sparks.
Then something shuddered, the dripping pen fell.
Seamus the skull, through a thicket of quills,
watched Fergus, the flame, stir and squirm on his stool,
shift pages, sigh gently, and turn to his song.
Fergus picked up his quill; bent over his page.
The truth of cold truth pervaded the cell.
A cooling sun flickered, faded, went out.
Note: Alan Watts called the orgasm "the sneeze in the loins."
Also note: One can encourage a slow-developing sneeze by staring into bright