My head I hold to the four winds.
My being, in it’s fullness, as a banner afire with
the rays of life’s light, I decant in a milky jar
to be drunk by the living breeze, to be ridden by
the rider of the muse to a heaven of growing pure
ivory, breeze born and reeling in the joyous poem of
life.
A house of beastly contentment, yet with heads
caped in the knowledge of love, the lace dublets of
wisdom and foundations of eagles ever alert and
mighty, mother eyed, in compassion and feeling
father in the heavy horned harness of state.
My pride I hold upon a jet shield, high in the
domain of the wind.
My folly as a fool, leather-eared and asslike in
the molten paths of my conceit. A leper is healthier
than myself, if cleanliness of soul is a flesh
scholar.
My ears are bangled with tangling ivys sprung
from the fiery downs of falsehood.
For my eyes, hooded and beaten by the years are
eaten by the vulture of mythology.
My skull juice, curdled like an overripe cheese
reeking and ill in my castle of destiny.
Like a pomegranite am I.
Oh, wind ones with your shallow cares for the
darkened heart, in your rolling robes of chivallry,
which way will your guillotine gaze fall.
Marc Bolan, from The Warlock of Love
