Poem: Lilith

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A night voyage in the garden,
A solitary Adam, darkness bitten,
Lurid fuck-teeth of vegetation,
Imagining sex of demonesses,
Wet moisture of turbid inner-currents,
The thorns and the thistles,
Releasing kink pleasure,
Exquisite pain of turmoiled flesh,
Gravid powers of prosperous lust

Rising up from the dust,
Wearing shawl of sable stars,
Sweet Lady Night, with onyx feather wings,
Gags her throat – violently sings:

“Veneration of chaotic bloods,
Pumping zone of throstled heart,
Fuck against snowflakes in the mud,
Feel the lips of night-time part”

With agile twist and flick of veil,
Slow reveal of pearly flesh,
The female comes to pin the male,
Sinking claws into his breast

She bites his lip, until the juice
Of unveined blood is quickened,
She bites his cheek, until the walls
Of his phallus thicken

Her womb, her hips, grind to the thrust
Of lecherous gravity,
Her womb, her hips, grind to the dust
The axis of the world of me

Now, unable to disengage,
Wrists inflamed from the manacles of her desire,
He screams as he dreams of the progeny,
The torrent of abortions,
Flowing from her in endless streams,

Looking at him pityingly, she says:

“O, man, feeblest of flesh,
You cannot dance the dance of death,
Shaming death, in mortal greed,
You abjure your soul’s deepest need

“To feel the scythe in twist of skin,
Memories of skulls in ache of love,
Turning desire into sin,
The serpent flees into the grove

“Where I still rule, command the flame
Of all self-torturous yearning,
Where I still rule, command the light
Of empty churches burning.”

And so, removing chains from him,
Lilith casts imperishable chains inside,
You cannot hide, you cannot resist,
No desire to be denied

No desire to be denied

Poem: Polyphemus

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People don’t know how to look anymore,
Eyes untextured, lenses peeling,
Retina retreating in blind skull caverns,

All is just a gawp,
A spasm of a shutter,
Of Polaroids that grow pregnant
And abort in the gutter

We had to go to Heaven to find out,
Falling back to Earth in baroque cabinets,
Microwaves fitted with just the right radiation
We need to feel ourselves

“My body is mine, now it’s luminous green,
Airways sparked by the thrill of nausea,
This body isn’t mine, if there is no pain
To provide tension with its glorious outline

Look at you, my dear,
Your eye sight is failing,
Hair, teeth, fingernails, all falling out,
Offering keratinous kisses to an unseeing world
To perfect the apathy of entertainment

But, if I could leave it all behind,
I wouldn’t know the first place to go,
Filtered by wind, the nature of disappointment,
Caked into a carapace, nurtured with ointment

No, it’s irreconcilable, my love,
Dovetailing to days all our arguments repeat,
So many recapitulations of misspent polarities,
Finding only dissonance in harmonies.”

How did it get this way?
Shouldn’t we have peered deeper,
Not irritated by surface exposure,
These carcinomas of skin,
The ‘not-quite’ disclosures?

I wanted to love,
To feel love-burst yoke,
But all is ailing,
Only choke-hold choke

This weary heart
Has only radiation,
The dream, the nightmare
Of sodium pentothal injections,
Keeping warm the furnace
Of unavoidable madness
Which you could never relate to
Or wish to understand

The day has cast me off;
I do not understand its commands

Poem: Problem of Proserpina

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Wine, opium, and orgies,
Wishing I could be decadent,
Piles of syringes,
The sweetness of shattered glass

Living on a dying planet,
How long does it take to brew love?
Trials of hurt,
Deserts of disappointment,
Familiarity fermenting into beauty

But some barriers cannot be broken,
Barbed by well-groomed boundaries,
The elixirs of Bacchus,
Ariadne’s webs,
Intoxication grants not your dream’s indulgence

The outlines of legs intertwisted,
Hips close,
Souls closer,

Yet the lack of ignition,
Of sensual detonation,
Sends up perimeters,
In contrast of genders

From sheer willpower,
I grow breasts, the rondure
Of hips, incarnate fertility goddess:
The realization of Sapphic lust

Then I would not be cast out,
Welcomed into the feminine,
Divine supplicant of the sisterhood,
My body a biological season pass
Into a lifetime of pleasure

Spank me on my roseate arse
And call me Proserpina

Poem: January Is An Empty Womb

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January is an empty womb,
Scraped of endometria

In our darkened towers,
Alcoholism seems inevitable

It’s better I disappoint you now,
Save on squalid investments

Born to hate everyone,
An innovator of odium,
I drove nails into the harpsicord
To relieve my torpid boredom

This culture is dead,
Wallowing in pus,
Blankets of raw kidneys,
The underthings of necrosis

I’d help you undress,
But my skin is too cancerous,
Can’t stay in the sunshine of your flesh,
Or do the exalted dance

Ill-equipped, with only a few bones
Left to prop up my sagging flesh,
I slithered into the night
On diaphanous pterodactyl wings,
Pulling clots of blood behind my eyeballs,
The fruitful viscera behind the retina,
To see what can’t be seen,
Only the black yoke of shadows,
Fertile swamp of disappointment,
The never-ending chains of torture
With syphilitic madmen
Cavorting in jellies
Of lucent cyanide puddles

Splashed by their advances,
Fanned by a small tornado of moths,
Even in the light of good intentions,
It’s hard to suppress the urge to attack,
The desire to peel skin from smiles,
As if you didn’t think I was intelligent enough
To think these things for myself

How do you externalize so much hatred
Without actually hating?
So much violence,
Without being violent?

If I could just see the sight of blood,
Walk slobbering through an evergreen of corpses,
Feel the agony of teeth against my skin,
Perhaps it would make up for the absence of love,
Forever desiccating

Because I hate love,
My heroin-addiction to it,
The paling of all comparative pleasures,
The evasive puzzle piece

The self-realized surgery,
Drunken extraction of exploded organs,
Just like the Crimea,
When you died in the hospital,
Without even a blanket,
The nurse inspecting you
With a faltering lantern,
Her laughter cackling black

I hate it when you try to help me,
Because I know that you can’t,
Why this poisoned misanthropy?
This throbbing behind the eyes,
The sickness of good intentions,
Incriminating platitudes dripping arid
From pearl-less lips,

Being such a curse,
I cannot see beyond this

Poem: The Meaning of Glamour

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All hail The Penis Tree!
Grinning glamours,
Enchanted amours,
With sweet vixen lamias,
The procession of blood-toothed flagellants,
All of purgatory’s horny inhabitants

I know it ensorcells you
My naked arse perched on this broomstick,
My hips a coat-rack of severed members,
The muscular wands of my vamping powers

God, it makes me feel so alive
Being the hidden orchestrator of every orgy,
An Angel of Lust,
A Lilith in a lion’s mane,
Sweet succulents of venom,
Riding packherds of cinnamon;
The Devil in The Cassia Trees
Knowing the orgasms of them all

Counting their pleasures on his claws:
The rapture before The Fall

Poem: Dragonborn

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When the precious winds roamed;
The lungs of time yet unlacquered
By threads of pneumonia,
All enwombed within the Deity of Water

The Middle Kingdom had yet to bloom
All the tubercles of wonder,
The Kunlun mountains just baby teeth
Sucking ginger in a giant’s cavern

The ten suns heated things up,
Tessellating Pan Gu with arteries of water,
The Jade Emperor sent down The Dragon Kings
To tame the ravines and gorges

As The Blue Carp swam The Miluo River,
Dizzily dancing in its current,
The flesh of Qu Yuan falling into his mouth
Saw the birthing of a dragon

Emerging from time’s chrysalis,
Violently hatching dark sapphire scales,
Quilted with topaz and silken memories,
Echoes of the dynasty’s dazzling ephemera

His body became the back
On which mountains were embroidered,
His yellow belly the anvil
Summoning the desert’s thunder

With each poet he engorged,
Verses personified with draconian beauty,
Their dark pearls in the cinnabar cavern
Coming full moon with elegance

But when beauty is your corona,
Who is there to match you?
Loneliness becomes the peak
On which gravity impales you

The dragon roared over infinite space,
Collapsing galaxies into beads of agate,
Violent order assuaging the chasm
Chaffing the membrane of his unruly heart

He found no solace in the flowing of silk,
The timeless sagacity of Lao Tzu’s words,
The dusty earth was dust indeed,
Everything infected by underworld

How to share, to love, to care,
Saw his spirit’s impoverishment,
By sorrow was his lustre spilt,
By longing was his lifespan rent

The love he wished turned to anger,
Legendary of volcanic frustration,
He hid beneath the palace grounds
To nurture his wounded imagination

But one day, unseen, his love will come,
To claim him from the darkness,
And in showers of sparks as scale-flesh meets,
Will see the healing of all the heartless