The pyroclastic flow of molten Semen on skin and bloodied face From twisted thorn-root, sharp shard Of splintered spear-like glassilver Runs down, oozes, intertwines Congeals and breaks open three Times before the pumice Ground of acrid, dry cracked lips And weathered brown-bronzed skin Of the Pompeian bursts into song. Flowers bloom and Rome yields All is wet and fertile now. The syncopated rhythm of Servile platitudes contests the Undulatory dischord of epiphany That Plinian scholars erupt When recognising that Gods sleep In dorment catacombs of honeycomb Nectar and sweetbreads in deep Halls under Stromboli, Etna and Versuvius whilst corpus christus Sighs down the gorge to see the Town lit by burning martyrs And Nero strums once more with joy. The breastplate of the warrior is Cleansed by the tongue and then Wiped by the deep mantle of Hephaestion who's seismic studies Have led him to reading lava cracks And preparing to be wiped from the Mosaic and to subsequently appear Only three times in three thousand Years as a ghost of reformed tesserae The black mountain of Vesta lies agape In her virginial beauty only waiting For the day that Venus whets her. It is within this fervour of anticipation That our hero rides the rich tapestry Of the priapismic order whilst maintaining Deadeye on Darius who balks at the Gorgon head whilst losing all feeling And sensory perception as he turns into Plaster cast from the ash layer but who Will recoginise the features of these Deformed castings and where will the Hero ever discover the eunuch Bagoas? As the flows reach their destination flowers Die, semen dries and blood turns to water.