the great god apollo is +dead+

by Allister Nelson

the great god apollo is dead, florid

blood like smattered roses on the grecian

asphalt, where once delos was flocked

full-circle by kingly swans, now, the nymphs

weep for their great King, his golden breast pearlescent

as ichor and odor of marigold ambrosia bleeds

like the crust of a spanakopita onto the laurels and pine.

oh apollo! great god of mystery. you who conquered

the python and cursed cassandra with a dream of dew,

traipsing across coveted flocks with lyre, stealing maidenheads,

robbing sheep, great artificer of device, great machine of poetry.

who nibbled homer’s ears (for blindness makes the better of us)

and tickled catallus’ ass with a sun-bright bow – rammed straight

up to his head, aright! what would sappho be without your sister’s

sweet kiss on the isle of lesbos in the grace of doe-eyed artemis? for,

those fairy maids danced twine for you in Asterion’s labyrinth.

midas’ touch is pale compared to the flax of your dead hair, apollon!

vain god apollo, beneficent wondermaker, he of cymbal and philosophy.

when calliope braids your drying hair, mourning as the many men and women

you had bull-jump in Knossos over your blooming corpse (was hyacinthus’ disc- death

any worse than you, forgotten Apollyon of the Pit?) cast out of temples long ago,

fain wanderer of fair fortune, the ephebe visitor of Germania who could not die –

timbrels echo in Hyperborea as the bears of cold climes (where dahlias grow)

clamor at the rain that falls on your bronze pelvis.

There goes the grass.

There, go the ashes.