Minuet of the Burning Fields
(Don Giovanni in Hell)
I’ve invited the statue to dinner
to discuss my disbelief.
I’ll mock his stiff posture
and unflapping regalia.
I’ll extol all the virtues of wine
and women and Brendan Behan.
Come, come, Commendatore,
exhort and sway my conscience
from my silver truffle tray
so that we may flinch together,
dance together the minuet of descent,
pirouette among the accusatory flames.
steer clear of the swailing fields
for nothing is more cunning
than the driptorch neck perfumed
creating the slow burn of haute couture.
The ladies always achieve their revenge,
this is my rakish lament.
So urinate to excess and
spew out from the terrace,
do not let them convince
that jealousy is not a weapon,
a flattering weapon,
with enough heat to break down
the seed coating of a Sequoia.
The concept of God is easy to debunk,
the contradictions of His perfect nature
that also willed the existence of Beelzebub.
But the caprice of beauty evanescent
can only be deciphered by waging all
on red, spinning the roulette,
laughing when you win,
laughing when you lose,
dozing full of sin,
expiring full of booze.