Poem: A Riddle of Curses


I am not an eater of flesh –

I am a devourer of symbols –

I do not speak with words –

Only eloquent growls


I am the wielder of the serpent power –

The spewer of curses – the utterer of malice,

Look at my Caduceus – the serpent on the cross,

I am as cruel as winter – as merciless as a fist

Of ice


This is my harem: though I am crowned with

Buffalo head, tapering horns to pinion the sky,

A bloodshot third eye, envenoming a perspective

That milks every murder; though my body is

Burden upon all dimensions – though my breath

Reeks of carrion, and my every word dredges up

Bile from the lungs of the deep – still, I have my

Harem – still my courtly beauties take off their

Skins at my bequest, and dance in harried motions,

Frigging themselves against the pelts of tigers –

Singing songs – beating drums – trouncing skulls –

Blowing the conch


To be held in contempt by me is to be accursed

With the greatest of praise:

My blessings are curses – my curses – blessings

And, with this fist of ice, I do now declare you

Accursed; and with this heart of fire, I do now declare you






Poem: House of Flesh


I really do wish there was

Someone who could help me;

Some emotional navigator who

Could orient me through these endless

Avenues of Pain. I am completely

Underworlded – I’ve been stuck here

So long I feel that I should at least have

Squatter’s Rights. Or a natty little office

On which my name can be bleedingly inscribed.

I do not feel I can win or lose in this situation;

I am introduced to a cathedral of flames –

Infernal masonry braided with the pulsating

Flesh of the living – the mortified skin of

Sufferer, upon sufferer,

Upon sufferer.



Someone once wrote that the regions

Of hell are infinitely larger than any

Enlightened Buddha Land. Is this the

Truth? Is Heaven so claustrophobic?

Isn’t it just one of the effective illusions

Of Hell to make it seem like it will never


When you’re in Hell, you’re constantly

Looking for the end, for the exit, for

The outside, for release – for

Some alarming mystificator

Who claims to know the way to

Peace. But, in Paradise, such self-

Conscious time has met its

Demise – everything is bornless

And Impaled upon an eternal moment

That can never be vanquished or




I look to my pen as the

Key to my escaping:

And yet, to keep on

Writing, I must keep on

Suffering: write – suffer –

Write – suffer – until ‘writer’

Becomes synonymous with

‘Sufferer’ – a computational

System – a DNA strand of

Double helices, intertwining

Lover with




So, in last night’s dreams,

I was attacked by pigs –

The envoys of Vajravarahi –

Sows of greed who lived in

Houses of Rotting Meat –

Oh, what a feat, if they were

To add my offal to that ungainly

Collection – I would mount an

Insurrection – If I were to die,

As usual, my soul would be

Raging against itself: one part

Of me, traumatized, yet relieved

To have been reprieved from the

Constant contortions of life, would

Shout: “Don’t ever make me go back again!

Thank goodness that’s over!”

Thus throwing himself in the arms of

His merciful Cosmic Mother – while,

The Other Part, crazy, excitable, restless,

Selfless, and Fearless, would rebel against

My pain-avoidance instinct, and yell:

“What’s the hold up?! Let’s get this show

On the road! I’m not done with Earth, yet –

Give me a million, a billion, a trillion more

Lives, and I’ll still be thirsting for more!

For more blood and war, and sex, and death,

And the inevitable loss of breath – give it –

Give it to me! Pain and tumultuous

Experience by the gallons! Serve it

To me in flagons! And I’ll drink every

Last one until this whole rotten whore

House is out of business!” – but that

Is the interminable conflict: that in order

To take away all the suffering of the world,

I must take it upon myself – be a one-man

Waking-Hell – a Silent Christ – A mother,

Whom, in childbirth is willing to sacrifice,

Her life, for the parturition of a new Horus –

A new Messiah –

A New Throne



But, I do not feel I am

Asking for much: to be a

Teacher for those that wish

To be taught – and at least

A cheering presence to those

Who do not. I am quite happy

To bear the suffering of all

Of these. I just wish for one

Little help-meet; one little

Angel of Flesh, with whom

I could lovingly intermesh.

I Crave Touch. Not False-Touch –

But True Touch – a truly loving

Touch that is capable of permeating

These malicious miles of malevolent

Membranes we perfunctorily refer

To as ‘Skin.’ A within! A within! –

Someone who knows how to swim

Through this dark lake of isolated

Suffering that surrounds me; who can

Reach that island – that lonely island

That is always at the centre of myself;

Where I sit, and weep, and rock myself

To sleep, contracting myself into a

Woodlouse creep, until I find repose

In sweet, sweet



Oh, that someone would push

Away the myriad boulders occluding

The entrance to my heart, and make

Of me a romantic Lazarus!

But, I cannot ask anybody to do that.

So I will carry on, wandering in

Solitude, until at last, this

“Too solid body’ is added to –

That House of Flesh.



Poem: The Dying Days of a Butterfly Heart


To love is to suffer,

And to suffer is to love.

The moments that are most

Precious, instructive, beautiful, are

Those in which you’re in an enormous

Amount of pain, and there’s nothing you

Can really do about it,

Except endure it.

Things are turning sour –

A heart that thought it had found its

Portal to liberty, is now only more

Tightly bound up in chains.

I have done everything –

I have raved, railed, prayed,

Forced myself to act depraved –

But it cannot be helped –

When you push a boulder up a hill,

It’s only a matter of time, before it

Must come back down, to crush you

Again. My only comfort is to think:

“It will not always be like this.” And

When I am next happy, and everything

Seems to be flowing true, my main source

Of terror will be to know: “It will not

Always be like this.”

Perhaps, like a mountain, I am

Best viewed from a distance:

When you see me from afar,

I can conjure up visions of majestic

Splendours; of omens, dreams, prophecies

Sublime – but, up close, all of this

Beauteous romanticism dissolves,

And one is faced with the harsh realities,

Of how hard I would be to climb.

So, keep away from me! I think

I would rather be loved as a fantasy,

Than rejected as a reality. At least,

That way, I could still content

Myself on rainy days with the

Potency of romances

That will never be.

I have tried to be abominably

Reckless; yet I am still so

Suffocatingly cautious in

All my actions – passion, indeed,

Is not my master – just a lover,

To whom, I would like to surrender,

Were it not that Reason keeps me

Tied up and bound. I guess the jury is

Out – either I cannot live up to the

Fantasies I inspire, or those fantasies

Simply aren’t as pleasing to their attendants,

Once they begin to exist. So what of it?

Pinioned between fantasy and

Factuality, I find I have little space

In which to move amongst my friendships

With others.

But, I cannot go back up the mountain –

I have committed myself to these Cardiac

Rampages – I have experienced more pain

Through this approach, yet also infinitely

More life – and for this treasury, I will

Suffer the more, like a flaming man, who,

On seizing coins of gold, has them melt

To molten lava in his hands.

In another time, I might have

Been born as a king – Lord knows I have

Enough wefts of hair to do a good King

Charles II. And, yet, I find myself, an

Untouchable pauper – a chimney sweep

Whose job it is,

To clean the anus of the


What is so wrong with me?

Is my skin poisonous?

Is my aura made of flames?

Am I a nuclear, radioactive disaster,

That cannot be approached, without

The suitable safety wear?

Because you certainly make me

Feel that way – like a monster, a

Beast, a ravening grotesque; when I

Am actually the most gentle of creatures.

I know my own hands are equally stained

With guilt – few people have been allowed

Smooth ingress into this most encaged of

Hearts. I am not a family man – far from

It – I am a beast – a wild man of the

Woods – a vampire – a raven alone in

The Lovecraftian hills – a harbinger of

The apocalypse, from whom death and

Misery spills. Oh, pestilent Reuben!

Reuben in chains! Let’s dash our brains,

And let these interminable trials be finished –

These poems are endless, because my

Grief is endless – my pain has been saved up

For twenty-six years, and is ready to be

Hideously cashed-in. Well, here it is!

Here’s the money! Here’s the wealth of

My woes; my precious savings from

Unhappier days – so let’s make it rain!

Feed off the fruit of my rotten harvest –

Binge on the pestilence wrought by these

Years of famine, which, hidden behind the

Happy illusions of commerce, and the bland

Fatuity of customer service, has been slowly

Eating us into woeful seasons of

Starvation, that beleaguer us as

Affably as a cheerful pack of



I shall take William S. Burroughs’

Naked Lunch as my role model; my

Sacred scripture of vented insanity.

After years in Algiers, of churning out

Page after page of satirical, outrageous

Filth, they exclaimed that you were

Completely changed – you emerged from

Out of these tapestries of obscenity, as

An enlightened angel – having purged

Yourself of years of heroin guilt, after

Shooting your unhappy wife, you

Emerged renewed, purified –


I hope to write my way

To such a transcendent state;

That, by chasing the tides of these

Insane pages, I will reach the mountain,

I so desperately ran from, to happily

Return again. What will I witness

This time around? What, from this

Re-imbued vantage point, this

Enlightened eyrie, will christen my

Eyes, with the heavy wisdom of



So, for now, I still have a

Butterfly Heart – it beats against

The myocardial chasms of these

Skeletal chains, and finds itself inflamed,

By the same humid confines, it needs

To survive.

What did I do to conjure up

Your distaste? To brook your

Repulsion? I know the mistake

I made – to seek, to hope,

To love, to praise –

These are the crimes I

Committed, for which I

Earnestly wish to be acquitted.

Can I find the phoenix in the ashes

Of our relationship? Can I find the pure

White feather of a murdered bird,

That was lucky enough to be buried

In the sky? I don’t know.


This morning, just such a feather

Happened to fall from the sky,

And land upon the veranda at

The house where I was staying.

But, I invested no hopes in it:

I am sick of omens, of portents,

Of astrology, of tarot card readings,

That never promise me anything,

Except more and more luxurious

Palaces of pain, in which to treasure

My myriad grievances.


Yet, still, foolishly, I had the absurdity,

To wish the craziest of wishes, when on

My left arm, a tropical butterfly landed.

Espying its cinnabar wings, I wished an

Incredibly selfish wish – a wish that scoffed

In the face of reality, like a doctor who offers

A patient a bill of clear health, when, within

The cosmos of their malignant cancer, all

The symptoms of death are aligned.


So, gone are my romances, my dreams,

My chances – no savioress,

No wife to wed, will I.

So, thank you, optimistic friends,

Who offered me encouragements,

That I might somehow achieve such

A grotesque prophecy.

I will drink to your good health –

Knowing it can only be achieved, by

The ruination of my own. Do you

Not perceive that this is my sacrifice?

My philosophical farce of humanity,

I use to disguise, all the hope I wish to give

To you? When I sing, I sing for

You; when I write, I write for

You; when I make an ass of

Myself, I do so for you; when

I almost kill myself, my precarious

Non-corpse is dedicated to you; when

I dance like a madman, I dance for

You; when I sit down in placidity, it

Is for you – all the erratic phenomena

Of my crazy existence, is for all the

World to sink its teeth into.

So, eat up, my friends! Feast

Upon this body, I put on,

Just for you! Take advantage

Of it while you can, for it

Will not abide here long;

And it may be a mayhem of roving

Generations, before I deign to re-appear



So, may I be like you, great guru,

Chogyam Trungpa – may I be blessed

With your fearless authenticity, and be

Willing to labour exclusively for the

Welfare of all sentient beings, with

Absolutely no concern for my own.

May your heart be my heart; your truth,

My truth; your selflessness, my selflessness;

Your attainment, my attainment; your

Drunkenness, my drunkenness – may your

Folly be my folly. And, blessed with the

Crisis of your divine presence, perhaps

I will find, the wind in the sails, I

Need to blow me through these

Hard times?


But I will not just invoke

You, but all the gods I know –

Ekajati, Isis, Diana, sweet

Mother Tara, Kurukulla,

Mahakala, Padmasambhava,

Yeshe Tsogyal, Vajrayogini,

Yamantaka, Medicine Buddha,

Ursula – Yidams aplenty! Yidams

Galore! As you won’t help me

Attain what my heart most desires,

Won’t you please give me the stoic

Strength to refine Wisdom out of the

Alchemical Lead – this lapis – this

Stone of Pain? Won’t you bless me

With all the opportunity and charisma

I need to be an inspiration to others?

In the same way that I can study the lives

Of John Keats and William Blake, and be

Benefited thereby; I pray that, in future

Times, people will be able to study my

Life and Works, and, in these wild and

Chaotic pages, they will find some

Encouragement, some wisdom,

Some happiness, some enlightenment;

Something to sustain them, undefeated,

Through the aching years of pain.


But, tomorrow, I will shave –

I have grown sick of looking

At my face – a face I no longer

Love – I do not see a man,

Anymore – only an Archetype,

A prophet, a joke, and an

Apocalypse – and I hate it,

I hate it, I hate it.

Fuck you, Holy Man, with

Your tranquil eyes, and your

Serene expression! You bloody,

Ridiculous lunatic! You serpent!

You entrail! You waste of flesh!

I am sick of you. I am sick of your

Facial hair, your charm, your

Perfect poise of composure –

I fucking hate it all. You’re just

A big phony – when did you ever

Tell the truth in your entire life?

Only within the prison of these

Poems – the Alcatraz; the Bastille of

These pages. That is the honest truth –

Otherwise, you are a liar, a charlatan,

A fraudster, a conman. So, why can’t

You just be yourself? Because that self

Is just a hideous delusion. The only

Parts of myself that seem to be

Undying and eternal, are my Pain,

My Madness, and My love – throughout

My entire life, these are the only things,

That never seemed to go away. And yet,

If it is this triumvirate that I feel most

Inside myself, then why don’t I ever

Show it? How can I?! How can I

Show as much as that?! I would

Have to be locked up! Who can

Sum up the entirety of the ocean,

With a single bat of the eye? If

You want to see the complete Milky

Way, you would have to travel for

A long, long time, before your external

Vantage point would ever good enough.

So, I cannot show you it: I can only write it –

Just a coward with a pen – a

Tragedian with a shell – a janitor

Employed at a lunatic asylum, who

Never intends to clean for the entire of

His life.


So, butterfly heart, remember –

Though you might be bright;

Though you might be beautiful –

You are still only a butterfly,

And it is only a matter of weeks,

Before you must die. So, die

As best you can – and, maybe,

Once you’ve died that most unhappy

Of deaths, you can find comfort

In the chrysalis, that shuttled you to

Your butterfly heart.


Poem: Shambhala


My child,

I want to give you all the knowledge

I have gleaned from this lifetime

And others to come;

I want you to be executor

Of my indomitable will

That will transport the love I have for the world

Far into the future

I chant the holy name

And it is as though I have taken cocaine

Every second is so heavy, so final,

That I can barely believe

I’ll live out the week

Oh, this tender heart of mine

The cried at The Fall of Hyperion

Or the final resting place

Of an undeserved moth in wing

Don’t you remember your premonition

Of seeing me dead in the hospital?

But my beard is not long enough

And has yet to taper to the stateliness

Of a Chinese nobleman

Mahakala comes into my body

And I wonder how I can contain such passion,

Such ferocity, such raging immortality

Within these mortal coils

DNA strands

Plait the hairs of Lizard Queens

And the aristocracy of InterSpace

Plugging itself inside its own cosmos

Like a teenage escapologist

Uploading himself into the tragedy of the internet

I have seen Shambhala –

The king sits on a microchip throne –

His consciousness is imbued with the city itself

Reigning within all his subjects

By becoming his subjects themselves

Oh, beautiful hallucination!

Of stately mesmerism!

I cast aside habituation

And all I can feel

Is the terrifying madness of the moment

Charlotte Bronte

Transcending her small stature

By vandalizing the face of time

I have seen Shambhala’s Kingdom

I am become king within king

I kiss the Queen with the soles of my feet

Yet still long to let her in


Poem: Melancholy Sleeping


Sometimes Melancholy sleeps;

Sometimes that lead-hearted beast

Betakes himself to his torporous chambers

To sleep his misery away – but

The Melancholy is not to be slept

Off – only revised, replenished, and re-chastened,

To hasten upon our world again –

This is the world of Hyperion,

Where the venomous solarity of the sun

Keeps us jocund, waxing and waning

Along with the shallow and profound,

As the beast lumbers in the realms of

Sleep, occasionally uprising, snoring, starting,

Convulsing, and despising, all the greenery

Of the curses consciousness can give

Intermittently, we find ourselves

Startled, and disturbed, by his sweet

Disabling stertor –

But, the party goes on,

And we cheer, and cry, and dance,

And die, until the beast reprises

His unhappiness again –

Now that this Beast is risen,

And happiness is dethroned – killed? –

Not yet – only postponed,

I go to Abergavenny Castle, to

Weep on those walls, my walls,

Those stones, my stones; that are

The crystalline bones of Satan’s merry-making,

With heart-quaking, I think back to

The Christmas Day Massacre, when the

Illusion of Friendship, disguised a treachery,

Too painful to be retold

So, sometimes Melancholy sleeps –

But He sleeps not now

I take my boat out on dark waters deep

And lash myself to that awful prow

Oh, Yeshe Tsogyal – so alike me in name!

Take me from this inconsequential train, and

Explain to me why the one that I love;

That perfect one, always wounding me with

That stately lack of artifice that is her perfection –

How can she appear to me in dreams,

And taunt me flagrantly so?

We were lying on the bathroom floor –

With my head on her stomach,

And her lowered gaze, alighted on me,

She made her love known for me

And I returned – Two “I

Love you”s exchanged with casual

Sincerity in the darksome treacle of

A dream, that only troubles me

When I awake –

For dreams are polyglots: they

Speak in many languages – often at

Once – speaking in symbols, fanciful

Portraits of the future, with an

Occasional trace of fear, or wish-fulfilment

Thrown in – let it not be

The latter – but a prophesy be!

An augury of a nebulous heart

Finally requited.

So, yes, sometimes Melancholy sleeps, also

Awaking to plot and thieve –

But Love is an Insomniac –

She doesn’t know the meaning of sleep

I think of fantasies – I think of dreams –

And my unhugged flesh starts to creep;

And my unloved flesh starts to weep

Against these walls, my walls; on these stones,

My stones; upon these bones, my bones, on

This love – our love?

On this love





Poem: Hungover Sun


You have to be careful

In a profession such as mine

When alcohol is the only currency

You’re likely to be paid in

You wake up in the morning

And will the bed sheets to transmogrify

Into the dream woman of your choice

Aliens consulting you with metallic tones

Trickling from angelic, silver tongues;

Stacks of books

Rise up to oppress you

Skinning you with an antiquarian scholarliness

That leaves no cathedral unturned

I suppose I can cope with the nausea

But who couldn’t

After playing witness to my smile?

I fall off a barstool

Throw up a song

And watch the hungover sun

Hesitatingly rise



Poem: Garland of Secrets


Sweet girl,

Divine girl,

Imagination-sculpted girl,

Shall I sing a song for you?

I steep myself in ancestry

And follow the trail of tongues

That gave lustre to silence

Long before I stirred from the elective mutism

Of my untutored, bornless years

In solitude, spirits throng among me

The air congeals with a luminosity

That lifts me up with cheers

I am a regal lamb

Singing hymns to my own invisible court

My first hallucinations were of clouds;

Then came cities and towers;

A vast plexus of complex relations

Arising from the subtle ecology

Of my Petri-dish mouth

To prop myself up

Against hours that might better knock me down

I think of you, My Ladyship,

And admire your flowing gowns

As you stroll languidly beside me

In my mind, we have married and divorced

More times than I can count

Though I scarcely know you enough

To kiss you all over your back

I take a bite into an apple

And it is as though the flesh of the universe

Is being by martyred by my teeth

As much as I wish your own inexperienced molars

Would sink seductively into my own

Your petrified realness

Thaws my aloofness

An unspoiled sweetness

Like a forgotten mountain lake

Over which no boat

Has ever sailed

Secrets, secrets, secrets –

My life is a garland of secrets

Which I hide in your untilled meadow

Where I lay me down to lie


Poem: To Worship


What does it mean

“To worship”?

To worship something

Is to appreciate it so intensely

That the electricity of your enjoyment

Inseminates everything you are

Creating constant friction

Which creates more electricity

Until all that you worship

Is you

You cannot worship something

By placing it on a pedestal

Unless you grind your cunt

Against that pedestal

Until your mon veneris bleeds

With affection

Don’t worship from afar

But with terrifying closeness

Like a man on an electric fence

Writing odes to his own electrocution

To worship

Is to be alive

Nothing more

Nothing less

So worship every moment

You can start by taking off your dress


Poem: Song to a Muse


You are a bower of bliss

A little fortress of possibility

Slithering into my awareness

With those unforgettable brows

And that visage of excitable calm

How could I not take you as my daughter

And leave you in the road to die?

Oh, don’t ask why!

Isn’t it enough just to know

That I am here to be your guide;

Your psychopomp through valleys far and wide?

And to teach you to address

Those chains of experience

That will thus constrain and arouse you?

Why you should be on THIS raft of the living

Is your purpose alone

To guess

But your power is great

And it is just my delight

To bring it into fruition


Poem: Tapster’s Song to Vajrayogini


Oh, my magnificent Vajrayogini!

Thank you for treating me roughly

You have trained me to build the cathedral of flame

And to pinion myself on its lonesome spires

You make love to me

Both violently and gently

Eroticizing the flaming canals of my body

Until my flesh sears with unbearable delight

You whisper sacred teachings to me

That sound like dirty words

Thus the mantra of “FUCK FUCK FUCK”

Must always be proclaimed

But most of all

You have rebirthed me

As love and lust incarnate

To treat my body as a flaming palace

That must be available to all

Who amongst you will walk my hallowed halls?

To seek out the secret entrance

To my pentagrammatical pelvis?

Or find the tetragrammaton

In my twinkling eyes?

To find the ten-syllable mantra

Wreathed around my scrotum?

Or the imperishable words of saints

Writ on the crystal betwixt my thighs?

Burning phallus!

Burning phallus, thou!

Kidneys, Sacrum,

Skull and monk!

Indestructible Maiden arise

Let’s both get drunk!