Erysichthon
lives in a palace
built on the richest
corner of the world,
situated directly
over the heart
of the earth.
The walls are made
of alabaster
polished every day.
Ten thousand people
devote their lives
to polishing those walls,
washing away the filth
of Erysichthon’s feast
to admit the sun;
dust, dirt and stains
cloud the numinosity
as fast as they can scrub.
There is blood on the walls
of the alabaster palace;
one million sacrifices
offered daily
stain the walls
where Erysichthon dwells.
The Earth groans
under the weight
of Erysichthon.
On quiet nights
you can hear the Earth
moaning its lament.
On nights when Erysichthon
through his alabaster walls
looks greedily to the sky,
the moon shivers
and thanks its lucky stars
for being so remote.
Massive is the palace
of Erysichthon,
it covers twenty acres.
One hundred rooms
the palace holds,
and twice as many halls.
On every wall hang
paintings, every hall
is lined with statuary.
The great art works
of every age
bedeck the gaudy palace,
displayed only to feast
Erysichthon, and stained
with sacrificial blood.
And every morning
Erysichthon picks his nose
and wipes it on a painting;
today on Monet,
yesterday on Goya,
tomorrow on Van Gogh.
Every artist must submit
their work to him
on penalty of death.
He praises first
and next disgraces
and then bellows for more,
until the artist
bends down cruelly
and breaks beneath the yoke.
Musicians he wears down daily
as they endeavor
to tickle his tone deaf ears.
Singers and poets
strain their voices
praising him with odes and plaudits;
singing: he called
for bowl and pipe
and fiddlers three.
Singing in fright
of their fate
should their voices crack.
Intimidated attendants
wait on him,
his every beck and call.
comb his hair
and pick his teeth
and keep his anus clean,
attending to
his every need,
insuring his comfort.
They perfume his body
with essence of rose
and lilac water,
but his foul excretions
overpower the flowers
with odors of musky decay.
They pamper and cater,
hunting rare cuisines
to stave his cravings.
They tend his palace,
washing and sweeping,
scrubbing and dusting
the hundred rooms
and two hundred halls
which never have been used.
There are guest rooms
where no guest
has ever dwelt;
game rooms
where no cards
were ever dealt;
ball rooms
which never heard a minuet
or stepped to a dancer’s waltz.
But every room
must be kept in shape
should Erysichthon perchance
some day fancy
to take a stroll
and survey his domain.
In the basement
a mighty furnace
presents its gaping maw;
fed the rarest fuel
it churns out heat
and powers the entire palace.
Near by the furnace
pipes lead down
plumbing the depths,
pumping up blood,
the Earth’s heart blood,
to feed the raging fire.
One hundred men
shovel the fuel
into the flaming maw.
The furnace belches
heartburn heat
as it digests the Earth.
By far, the largest rooms
in the entire palace
are larder, kitchen and dining room.
One hundred butchers
man the larder
where sacrifices continue day and night.
These putchers live in blood
and sleep in blood--
their hair is clotted,
skin is red--
and when they cough,
they cough up blood.
And everything
passes over
their butcher’s black.
And everything that lives
ends its life at the edge
of their butcher’s blade.
Before the meat has been
bled out or hung
on hooks to dry
it is passed on
to waiting chefs
to be roasted and fried.
Ten thousand chefs
and of bakers
an equal number
are shackled
to their stoves,
there worked to death
perpetually cooking
and serving up
an eternal provender.
Fresh from the oven
without a chance to cool
each dish delivered
to Erysichthon’s table
disappears immediately
down his bottomless gullet.
Waiters carve and serve,
harried and hurried,
forking food into the ravenous maw;
so fat is the master
that he cannot reach
his mouth with his own hands.
Dexterious attendants
poke morsels between
his clashing teeth;
voracious teeth,
more dangerous
than Kharybdis.
And every attendant
can raise a hand to show
where they lost a finger.
Such is the nightmare,
the endless torment
of Erysichthon’s palace.
Every man is his slave
for toil, for pleasure
every woman is his whore,
and every life
is spent in effort
to satisfy his hunger.
Ever he keeps a woman
waiting, ready to milk
his loins;
and when she grows
too familiar or too old
to arouse in him desire,
he sends her to the butchers
and to the chefs, to dress her
for his dinner table.
And every slave and every whore,
and every attendant and every furnacestoker,
even every butcher and chef,
when their time draws near
and life is at an end
is brought down to the larder
to feed the master,
serving in death
as well as life.
Endless the appetite
of Erysichthon
and his alabaster palace.
We toil, we fools,
squandering our lives
to feed unappeasable
Erysichthon.