Want to keep up to date with poetry translation news? Sign up to our infrequent email newsletter
Over 40 years
at the cutting edge
of poetry publishing
[Twitter] [rss feed] [Facebook]

John Kinsella, from Comus

from Scene 1 of Comus: A Dialogic Mask by John Kinsella

Comus enters with a wand in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering, making a riotous and unruly noise, with burning brands in their hands.

The satellite is in place,
and the dull day's race
is run, time for the sun
to set and our night fun
to commence — pole dancers,
strippers, fanciers
of orgies and bondage,
come on, rage, rage
with the dying of the light,
praise wrong over right,
fart and breed,
spill your seed,
turn flesh to medicine,
frontiers are never sin.
Midnight frenzy,
dance and jollity.
Good sense has retired,
yet with good sense we've conspired,
we've narrowed the gap,
we've sucked the marrow from the ape,
Huntingdon Life Sciences
rises lustily from the fires.