I never finished this poem, but I like it. I may yet finish it. At the time I was reading Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell and a lot of Yeats; that's the only way I can explain it's being different from anything else I've written.
[Untitled]Crucifying on Tarot's Celtic cross,
the Devil tells me, "Scorpio, you've stung
your head with the winged visions from the eyelids
of the dead." A kaleidoscope flutters
terror through me . . .