Poem: Black Narcissus


Black Narcissus was the scent he wore,

Shipped abroad from a damp, London store;

But the Himalayas are no place for

Trifles – the monks might blow their

Dungchen – the sky-like diamond, dissolved,

Boring into every skull, driving nuns

Into solid hysteria – withdrawal symptoms –

Cold turkey for confinement


But, the world will not brook confinement;

Whatever mausoleum or rock you might hide

Under, there will always be some hand

To pry you out, and throw you into the



And, it’s doing you a favour, whether

You think it so, or no; for though you

Might like the texture of your cold,

Clammy rock – the party’s raging in

The sky – and you needs must be tossed

Into it – or else, you needs must



Deborah Kerr’s eyes are too

Big to see the Himalayas –

They are a mountain range

Unto themselves – each eye,

A moon yoked into harness,

Taking legions of men, of

Faeries, to pivot each titanic

Swivel – from left –

To right


The wind eats you alive

Up here – it decodes the

Rancid electricity of your

Mind, and scatters your

Thoughts like a murder of

Crows, disseminating prophesy

And madness, in every unspent



Wounds can be subtle things –

A perfect apple may perch on

A bough – a tiny, cylindrical incision

The only omen of its curse, fertilizing

It with fetor and rancour, though its

Skin remain so red, so plump


Just like Kathleen Byron, before

She goes in for the kill –

Every murderess must look

Elegant – every murderess must

Know when to torch her nun’s habit,

So she can paint her sex on all,

Putting on the lipstick, slowly,

Watching the candle waver;

Waver like your waxing sanity,

So eager to be free


There was nothing ever wrong

With you – you just wanted to be loved –

But neither East nor West could prove

To you anything but the vastness of

Heartlessness – the stoical, British

Cruelty, that offers only reproving

Condemnations, when it should

Love, kiss, and hug


But, it was too late for you,

Kathleen, though I might

Itemize every last bead of sweat on

Your feverish brow – to let them roost

In my mouth like a cavern of unspoken

Words, each sizzling in the guano, of

Desire, never to be met


You little coquette, you

Ravening Dakinis, tiptoeing

Crazily on the ledge of that

Sky-drowning gorge, to throw

Her in – that stinking harlot –

Wrap her up in gauze, and toss

Her into time’s hungry jaws!


With the bell’s rope tied

Around your neck, they could

Hear the certifiable crack of your

Spine, after every ghastly peal was



And, all for two ghastly nations –

Two jewels in the tiara of evil,

Who know not how to kiss, or




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