Never interrogate a miracle
in a land where gods cross paths. Understand
in the end a pox of lips mythical
and terrible white-knuckles its third-hand
into a sizzling kiss twice abysmal
as one genius ill-paired with other than
what mister or mistress whose truth
his misery would soothe ruins.
A caterwaul of tales apocryphal
and probably false fills with frenzied and
furious froth these halls his echo stalks.
Restless even still after all legend
ceased here to persist its firebrand’s charcoal
residue of his residual pound.
A howl heard since against bad press
his fists fell, inked avalanches.
Impervious, in his purview, to all
attacks of every critic, we stand
now in the oblivion of total
eclipse which was lately his bedroom. Bound
only by such secrecy as compels
us pervert-poets partial to demands
whose indecent errands we have
our idiosyncracies had.
Ruinous the rudeness of those who call
here, this town-house palace where endless ran
glamorous excess until rumours milled
from that sorrowful madness kept hidden.
His evil angel evangelist skill
a talent for sorrowing even when
penning what sent laughing those his
confessions tempted relentless.
Transgressive, this baron whose two pistols
their blaring barrels too many dew-dawned
duels knew. Immortal, this Byron, called
icon by apostles across the pond
and centuries beyond London’s revels
from whence, ever since his troubles
began, resounds a rippling ebb
into which web flows legend’s debt.