Poem: The Potential For Touch



Oh, Eunuch, Eunuch,

Eunuch, Thou!

Paisley The Genderless

Has come back from the dead

Bringing with him, his sense of

Sexless wonder

Sexless despair

Free from every defilement

When I was want so desperately

To be defiled

I do not blame any of you

For staying away

Even I would not dare

To approach this beast

The Beast of Me

You cannot be gentle with me;

You must be brutal, sharp,

And quick

Or slow, smooth,

And insidious

Like a long, drawn-out kiss,

I am like the frog

That needs to be boiled alive

Place me in

The pool of your love

While it is nascent and cool

So that I do not try

To leap away

When the fiery fires

Become too fierce

I cannot relate to the daylight

At this moment

What have I

To do with light

Twilight demon that I am?

Stuck in the hands of the evening

I just cannot wrench back

This flesh of sorrow

I look down on this

Thin, able body

And almost wish it were

Padded, voluptuous,

So that I could be the woman

I wish you were

How I wish you were here!

Whoever you are!

Immaterial doxy

Of the seventh heaven

Shaking up

The inaccessible memories

That cleanse the skirting boards

Of my mind

You deva,

You Dakini,

You invisible, mysterious


Invisible womanhood,

Naked womanhood,

Curving womanhood,

Prying womanhood,

Phallic womanhood,

Non-Euclidean womanhood,

Drifting through the diamond mines

I sell for chewing gum

Dining on the living ages

Death forgot to cook

Only life cooks;

Death is always served cold

Like some terrible Mediterranean soup

That always remembers

How we used to dance

You, so insistent and vigorous,

Whilst I, the wild horse,

Just wanted to run free


Sentimental for space

And the spaciousness

Of a room with you

Your Dakini presence

Never leaves me

Yet, I still long

For form,

For Nirmanakaya,

For form, however dubious,

That can be loved,

And squeezed,


And pleased,

A form I can drift

In and out of

To and fro from

Getting lost in the park

Just to be alone

Then screaming back to you

And dialling your number

On the phone

I remember London

And what a turning point it was

Two days

At The V&A

With Miss Saigon In-between

I was so heavy and dead

With only art

To keep me alive

Falling in love

With memories,


But not the living naked woman

Standing beside me

I don’t know how

You tolerated me

For as long as you did

But even in my torpor

And manic depressions

I am still godly,



Impossible not to behold

Like a great Grecian statue

You’d rather keep behind a curtain

I got impatient with you

For your slowness

For your dreamy emotionality

Like a viscous pond

Unable to modulate

To the restlessness of existence

Whilst I was always clutching

To an irreversible future

Some fame-studded tomorrow

Where my talents

Wouldn’t just feel

Like imperishable obstacles

To the intimacy

I’ve always craved


It’s been a rollercoaster since then

I fall in love

With men

With women

With animals, trees,

Ghost, Dakinis,

And sensual textures –


That will stand still long enough

To let me love it

And behold it with lust

And self-directed disgust


I am in awe of myself

As a phenomenon

But not as a being

Being this being

Just seems too much

Excellent on paper

But often revolting to the touch

Spirits in the other realms

Might flick through my life

As one might a brochure

And think to themselves

“This one might be

Nice to try

For a century or two!”

But they put me

And find it’s not

Quite the holiday they imagined

40,000 kalpas

Squeezed into a single second

Just as much

As I’d like to squeeze you

I feel so hopelessly dependent on it

That potential for touch

Yet so sex-rejecting

That I just don’t know how

To re-draft the contract

Of how I have intercourse with life

I feel virginal again

Just propelled from the womb of fear

Just figuring out, awkwardly,

How to come near

To what I hold dear

I love you, Woman #1

Girl #2

Man #3

Bumble Bee #4

But why must I choose?

Why can’t I

Just take a bite

From every fruit

In the bowl

So that none of you feels excluded?

But, in the process,

I exclude myself

From the potential of touch,

Too carved up

By past mistakes

The Past-Masters

Reality bakes,

I hope in the silence of time

I shall find the right thing to do

Here are the names you’re looking for:

Me, Myself, and You



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