Poem: House of Flesh

orvieto4

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.

 

II.

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

End?

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

Deposed.

 

III.

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

Non-lover.

 

IV.

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

 

V.

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

Nothing

VI.

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.

 

 

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Poem: The Epic of The Accidental Prophet

sadak_in_search_of_the_waters_of_oblivion

There is no relief from love – no

Sacred anaesthetic, that can in anyway

Mute its torrential rages – no, nor nothing

Assuage, that to which, with torrid heart, my

Soul doth cleave. Afflicted with this chronic

Diathesis, I long to kiss your face,

Like a hunter longs to kill;

I try and sit and meditate –but

Your absence eviscerates me – it

Torments me – and in a rash, unskilled,

Surgery, it tips all the organs from

Out of my love-sick body, and piles

Them up before you, like a skyscraper of

Agony – perhaps we could play Jenga

With those exiled parts of my body,

And the first one to make my

Organs collapse, will be the one

To win my heart – but I fear

Being subjected to such chance superstition;

There is only one person to whom I wish

To give my heart – Everybody else

Must wait in line, until my

Madness has come to an end.

For I am mad – did I not tell you

I was love-sick? This is no psychosis,

No base schizophrenia, no bipolar, no

Sociopathy, no hypothalamic disorder – this

Is The King of Maladies – The Emperor

Of Madness – The Empress of Insanity –

For love is much akin to the uncapped

Lusts of empire: it puts no limit to

Things – but, in an ever-expanding, yet

Equally restrictive monomania, it contaminates

All things with the persuasion of its

Madness, until we no longer know the meaning

Of Reason.

II.

But, there is a faculty, that makes it

A stranger sickness still – the victim

Does not wish to be cured of his

Ills, but only to get sicker and

Sicker.

I was healthy once –

Now, to sickness I am committed.

When I am with you, and you

Seduce me with your silence, all is peace,

But the violence beats out most terribly, the

Moment your being is cast away from

Me. Oh, unkind goodbyes! Aching, evil,

Inevitability of Parting!

Loneliness has befriended me much, in mine

Short life – I have had much occasion

To occupy the desolate comfort, of its

Wasted confines. Now I know the definition

Of loneliness – it is defined by your absence –

From this I have deduced the meaning of

Peace – it is defined by the power of your

Presence

III.

My body is simply not strong enough to

Withstand a love as big as this. My old

Body must be destroyed, to make room

For something tougher. My spirits come

To me in the early morning, and treat me with

Lascivious cruelty – they convulse my body,

Rending it into agonizing positions – contorting

Me into postures of excruciating pain, all in aid

Of this one stated mission:

“To let love in –

To let love in –

Oh, Reuben, with your tiny bones! –

Serenader of space, an aspirant towards

Ungainly tombs – you must be rent;

Prescribed with torment – to let this love

In. For a love like this is not conducive to

Stable security, and hale good health: we

Must kill you, and lay you low;

We must make of you a towering

Inferno; a bonfire in which an effigy of

Your past self can be burnt – a

Sacrificial officiant to the future – for

This is a second coming, just as there is a

Third coming, a fourth coming, and a

Fifty-thousandth coming – so must

You be prepared! We will grind your

Bones to mercury – powder your heart

To cinnabar; we will pulverize your agonies

Into a crystalline consistency, we can sniff like

Cocaine, through our celestial nostrils: for, as you

Long – so we long for you!

We visit you nightly – we are addicted

To your agonies – to your ecstasies – to

The imperishable truth we find impounded

In every last one of your love-stricken

Selves.

Hurry up, sisters! God speed you!

We must kill him! Pull off his arms,

And throw them over there! Take off his

Legs, and throw them over there! Now! –

With this de-timbered torso, we can begin

The installation process. Hand me my scissors!

Hand me my knives! We must sever the umbilical

Cord that keeps him mired in

Any blasphemous notion of predictability, and

Suspend him in the joyous depth, of death, forever

And ever! Oh, you’ll like it there, Rube – where

Every moment, is an eternity of madness – in which

Strength is defined by the extent to which you

Surrender – in which your power is determined by

How much you let yourself be dismembered – Remember! –

YOU PRAYED FOR THIS:

Your prayed to be intoxicated, to be abominated,

By love – and now we bring your gifts, most

Terribly, like a man who gets a guillotine,

When all he wanted was a butter knife. So,

You want a wife, do you? Then let it be this! –

Let this be the marriage of Life and Death – a

Matrimonial alliance between Order and Chaos – between

All contrary opposites, that must be brought

To breed – yes, indeed!

This is just what you need!

And, never has a prayer been answered

So agonizingly, as this for which you so

Wretchedly prayed – Ah! Do not dismay! –

For once we have crushed you, and processed

You through the manufactory of endless non-

Confinement – (though the price might be

Exorbitant) – you will come out the

Other side, equipped with powers, greater

Than can be fathomed – this isn’t The Chemical

Wedding of Guildenstern and Rosencrantz – but

The abominable wedding of Heaven with Earth – of

Cruelty with mirth – of master with serf – of

Death with birth. Chaos is nothing to be

Afraid of – it is just a cocktail in

The making.

But, if you do fear something,

Fear love – fear love, whose

Mighty arms can bring all things

To utter destruction, with the most tender

And affectionate, of caresses – it lays

Cities to waste with its panted breath – tears

The world in twain through the rumblings of its

Quaking-heart – when it has sex, whole universes

Collide – it crushes planets, into powder, it

Sniffs up its nose – just as we, your Dakinis,

Have chosen to do with yours.

Oh, ungovernable lust of being to

Non-being! Oh, holy anguishments, with

Which the sky is rent! – liberate this boy

From the corpse of his body, and let him

Be, irrevocably commanded:

TO LET LOVE IN!

TO LET LOVE IN!

TO LET LOVE IN!”

IV.

With the roar of these words, I

Was struck with thunder – my head

Was immediately lopped off, and my

Organs committed to the torturous workings

Of a sausage maker.

A parade of beautiful demons – each one

Most luscious, in their toothsome grotesqueness –

Carried me, swingingly, up The Holy Mountain.

It was the darkest night of the year, where wizards

Consign one another to darkling realms, and you can

Hear The Black Eagle, ascend from the depths, to

Thrust his talons,

Into The Holy Mountain.

Up on top, in his nest, composed of

Gnarled thorns, Ekajati sits – she

Is the most ancestral shamaness:

Her skin is a venous blue, plastered together

From the cyanosis, and suffocation, of a

Thousand breathless worlds. Both her eyes

Have been stolen from her skull – she

Sacrificed them to The Black Eagle –

All she has left, is a throbbing orb,

Betwixt her brows, that has no iris,

No pupil – a pulsating, glaucous, sightless

Thing, that can see farther than all

The eyes in the world.

She wears no clothing – only the savage

Vestments of stolen bones, which clash

Together most atonally, as she dances

To the beat of your heart.

She has only one breast, affixed to

The middle of her chest.

And now, taking your tubercular

Skeleton, lovingly in her arms, she raises its

Tips, those skinless lips, to athirst from her

Shrivelled old tit – the nipples from which,

The diabolical milk of enlightenment, is to be

Wrung, and wrung, and

Wrung.

V.

I woke myself up, and found myself

On the darksome banks of a river.

I took up my staff, and clashed it

Against some boulders –

Instantaneously, wine flowed

Out of it in jucious cataracts –

This wine spread out, through the

Veins of the universe, and thus nourished

The hearts of all living things. All beings

Were re-married to their most sacred selves –

People no longer lived their lives in parts;

But in wondrous, wondrous fusion.

Love abounded. Disease was terminated.

Wars ended. And Peace emerged Victorious,

Quickly bathing itself, in these torrents of

Wine, which divested it of the agony of the

Convulsive fits, it needed to propel itself

Here.

I was raised aloft, on the jubilant arms

Of my people.

The cheering was so loud, throughout

All the realms, the music of the spheres

Was deafened, and not even a dog-food jingle,

Among the din could be heard. On this wave of

Jubilation, I was carried through the streets, through

Dales, mountains, rivers, and ghastly palisades,

Until my beard became of the costliest white, and

My hair turned a luminous gold. But I was not

Old – but a shiver of time – an Ancient of

Days, who, in seeking out a cure for his

Malaise, had accidentally cured the universe

Itself.

VI.

But, once the drinking started,

And the festival was properly

Initiated, I found myself still

Feeling alone. I looked to my

Subjects, from my mountain top, in

Which the sky was my palace, and I asked

Myself: “How is it that they have been freed?

That all of them have found their places, their

Eternal flames, their partners, their heroes, and

Their fragrant belle dames – and yet I, their

Infernal liberator, am still held in the thrall of

Sadness; still robed in grief; still adorned with

Tongueless silence; and still sung to by a peaceless

Peace? Is this simply how the universe must

Subsist? That, in order for all beings to be

Jubilant, one man must perpetuatingly

Grieve?”

Issuing his plaint to the auroral

Sanctuaries of heaven, He betook

Himself from his Sky Palace, upon

His palatial mountain, and endured

Years of fatal wanderings; trembling

Over craggy landscapes, on which no

Feet had ever stood – and still

He heard the Dakinis warble –

“TO – LET – LOVE – IN!”

VII.

One day, while the prophet

Was still wandering in his quenchless

Solitude, he had betaken himself from

His heights, to the lowest of uninhabitable

Regions. “Perhaps nothingness is to be

My only bride?” he thought. “I spend my

Days, thronged with catalogues of ancient

Goddesses, like Ekajati, and noble

Kurukulla, while, daily, the earth rises

From its slumber to greet me. But

Where is the flesh of my flesh? The

Spirit of my spirit? The bones of my

Bones? Perhaps I shall find it here,

Where nothing is ever found – where

There is nothing but toil and groans; where,

Like Ezekiel, I shall spend small eternities,

Lying on my left side, until my arms have

Rotted down to their roots, and nothing

Ever feels right.”

IX.

To my left were some geysers,

And muddy pools, which, to the recollection

Of even the hardiest historian, had always

Lain in waste.

As I slept, and the stars furnished the

Heavens with the possibilities of sad stories

Of stranger solitudes, even further removed than

This one – stories untold – stories of entire

Races of peoples housed in just one unhappy

Soul, and where parched deserts span entire

Planets, billowing through the heavens, in

Search of moisture, to redeem their insatiable

Thirst – it was then, that I, the forgotten Prophet

Of Oddiyana, heard those geysers come back

To life.

It began subtly – the muddy pools heated up

In extremity, until they boiled, and the earth

Suddenly uprose with prismatic flames, that

Jettisoned colours across the horizon. I got

Up, and invigorated with energy of euphoric

Scope, I danced at this display, unravelling

My robes in an expression of delight, until

I was as naked as the unclothed morning. It

Was at that crossroads – these rainbows flames

Projecting new stars for themselves – that I met

The tumultuous resurgence of Hope;

For there is always more hope to be had,

When there is more eternity to be groped.

X.

But, I still had greater sights to behold – for,

Out of this bleeding mass of symphonic earth, a

Face began to form. Not the face of giantess, or titan,

Seeking emancipation from its stony agonies – but

The face of a female passenger through time, who

Bore the markings of beauty eternal.

Though I expected the face to be wrought

With pain, so fearsomely did the earth shake,

No trace of discomfort was to be seen: only

The first gleanings of a twilight peace, that

Could somehow bear the fiery blasts of hell, as

The sunstroke of paradise.

With great screams of earth, this new

Aeon of being began to arise; and,

Recoiling from the screaming, the earth

Blasted, severed, and broke out in

Colossal eruptions, like a lady in labour,

Who finds herself giving birth to a child,

Too big for her to bear. I cast myself

Against the crumbling ground, and

Withstood this fiery fury of earth, ‘til

These eruptions had come to an

End.

XI.

Abruptly, the labours of Gaia

Came to a close. I took my

Fear-bound, sand-encrusted eyes from

The Earth, in which they had been enclosed;

Looking before me, I found my heart clenched

At a beauteous sight: there, before me, what once

Had been fury in embryonic flame, had now

Congealed itself into a stately goddess – eyes,

Which has been pupil-less as Ekajati’s, were now

Traced with an ethereal blue, of pallid hue – a head,

Which had once been as bald as the ground from which

It was crafted, was now ignited with a pall of

Hair, hanging glassine against her

Alabaster neck. Clad in Grecian dress,

And holding a bony wand of embrous pearl, in

Her hand, I recognized the markings of mine

Own.

I clung to her, and cried out to

The Heavens, so that every last bejewelled

Galaxy might know:

“Flesh of my flesh!

Spirit of my spirit!

Bones of my bones!”

Taking her trembling hand, and,

Journeying to the virgin stars,

The flames had created,

I took her back to my sky palace,

Where love was finally

Let in.

 

Poem: The Heart Unmasked (Seven Hells/Heavens in Seven Parts)

 

blake

PART ONE – INFERNO

How can I do it?

How can I be the poet, who

Epitomizes the pain of this age, to

Everyone’s satisfaction? I feel the

Constant sheddings of impermanence –

Those fleeting moments of joy, all

Too quickly overwhelmed by that tide

Of despair; by that pain and despair, so real,

And so intense, that you thirst for it, and howl

For it, sigh for it, and scream for it – beseeching

All the embers to burn you up, in that

Loving madness of pain. I tried to

Take off my mask; to show you

My naked face – but my Plutonian Overlords

Only cram it on more tightly, affixing and

Oppressing me with identities, I

Wish I didn’t have to invent – Oh!

Great Phantom Gods of Pain! Please

Help me in my aim, to bespeak the pain

Of a generation – not for fame – but so

That in the pools of these wildish words,

Their myriad sufferings might be diffused;

Perfused with the kinship of suffering, that

Transcends any skeletons or bones.

This is why I want to take off my mask –

To show you the agonies of my mind – my skull

Scarified – the crumbling condominium

Of my heart, that both harrower and

Harrowing have pried: for my heart,

Like Heaven, is a mansion with many

Rooms: some vile, some atrocious,

Some bloody, and melodious – some

Filled with the purest of nightly whites,

That few have the courage to ingress.

Let me take you on a tour through

My heart – in the basement I

 Keep my childhood, where emotional

Impressions were chaotic, and, like Jude The Obscure,

I felt consigned to a reality I was doomed to abhor; where misunderstanding

Was to be the lady-in-waiting, beleaguering my future

Hours. From thence, we arrive at the kitchen,

Where my teenage years were prepared; amidst

A melee of experimentation, I re-designed and

Destroyed myself daily, hoping to hit upon

The secret formula, that would most assuage my

Pain – years in which every stranger was a potential

Assailant, saviour, or oppressor; and girls were

Mythical creatures, by which only other men were

Allowed to be loved – so, up above, I clung

To my guitar, as a six-stringed refuge, in

A storm misbegotten, drowning myself

In music, and overindulging on breath mints,

That I hoped that would clear the air of repulsion,

That drove people so far away

From me. As we descend

Through the lower tiers of the hells

I quarried for myself out of the rocks

Of my misguided youth, we find my years

Of Cynicism, stung by seclusion,

Scientific endeavour, and literary speculation;

Of wandering down the dual carriageway at

3AM, blood all over my arms and thighs – (I

Didn’t realize the wounds were so serious, and

That we would later have to amputate her entire

Left side) – stuck statuesque in infernal

Discotheques, whilst the morons of my

Generation, danced in ignorance around me,

Clutching their tridents and chains – Like I said –

These were misguided days, in which I sincerely

Believed, if I learned enough, and accumulated

Sufficient knowledge, perhaps I would eventually

Be loved – Finally, somebody did love me,

Loved me so much, that they had to overdose

Themselves on painkillers, just to render themselves

Sensible to me – these were the years spent

In higher towers, in which the gilded furnishings

Barely concealed, the blood on the wainscoting, swifter

Demolition revealed – in these apartments

I sought after macabre joys – of secret parades

Wrought, in uterine blood – of victimization

Circling the carousals of my mind; end of the

World arguments, that left my nerves in a wreck,

And the stains of suicide, like an albatross

Round my neck – how much hope I invested in this pain!

In this dark trial of love, that oversexed me to a state

Of begrudging climax, taut with the torn ligaments of woe;

Of rare aphrodisiacs – trips to the doctors –

Of life-time imprisonment, in a life-long bed

With a girl whose compassion knew not

How to grow – when it was all done and

Finished, and my ill-gotten liberty perplexed me

To higher states – we turn now into the adjoining room –

The gallery in which are hung, all the hearts

I’ve broken since – constructive demolitions, housing

A stony memorial of guilt, for the death of an

Ill-hatched parrot, who never should have been

Caged next to me; besides a filing cabinet, cataloguing

My subsequent disappointments, filed

Alphanumerically.

  1. PARADISO

But, let’s not deceived by this –

I don’t want to be some lopsided

Reporter, a dualistic biographer of

Slaughter, who only highlights the trials

Of life – and not the incorruptible joys

They helped to fertilize. So we’ll ascend

From Hell for a moment, to pay homage to

My favourite chamber – the one thus yclept:

‘HOPE OF THINGS TO COME –

HOPE OF LOVERS NEXT’ –

In this chamber, you are the sole

Occupant, an ageless muse, resplendent in

The raiment of the moon;

In bridal veil, white gown, and sail, I beseech

The scions of Heaven to stitch you into my

Future – I know we have little temporal

Acquaintance – but around you, already, I dance:

You are the choreographer of my days –

The executioner of my nights –

The denuder of my face –

The purveyor of my delights – Already,

My heart has become your principal

Exhibition – The Archive of your every

Expression – in which I display all the

Trophies that celebrate, any time I spend

With you. If Hell is the past,

And a loveless present – then this is why

I rail against Time, longing for

It to stop in its tracks, to speed into

The future, or to sometimes double-back:

Those frozen moments, which I wish, immortalized,

I could paint myself into – when you cross over

The threshold, into the sacred suzerainty of my

Arms – Oh! How I wish I could preserve such moments

Forever – pickle them in a jar – mummify them

In my memories, that know no near,

No far: that, like some waxing candle,

I did not have to see your proximity, snuffed

Out before me. And so I dream,

Of some secret chamber, some tax-free

Haven, some forbidden penthouse of

Heaven, where I keep you in my arms,

World without end, in a loving embrace

We never suspend: an embrace that overcomes

All boundaries; liberates all beings from

Discontent; every wound is healed; every

Wrong is righted; every corruption is

Purified, all guilt elided, all love

Heightened, and elevated to a state

Of boundless magnitude, enwreathed with

A corona of eroticism’s angels, triumphing

The music, that can’t help but resonate

Betwixt our lonesome souls – don’t you see

The crux of my anglicized delusion? That

Separate, we are but tiers of Hell; but

Together we become the fabric of Heaven?

So, I will rail against Time – Time, the

Ender and initiator of all pleasures and

Pains – Time – The closer and can-opener

Of all embraces – Time, which

Brought you to me, and which I despair, may,

Too soon, carry you away – Oh! Don’t

Delay! What are you waiting for?

BRING ME MY HEAVEN! Do what you

Must to me first, but just BRING ME

MY HEAVEN! Shoot me with arrows like

St. Edmund – nail me to a cross – make

Me read dross – toast me like Joan of

Arc – torture me like a Buddhist captive in

The hands of a Communist oppressor – only:

BRING ME MY HEAVEN! Bring me days

Of unuttered release, where you untutored

Kisses, will be the only language I will ever

Speak – a Lover’s Binary Code: parted lips

For ‘YES’ – Closed lips for ‘NO’ – supple

Lips for ‘ONE’ – parched lips for ‘ZERO’ –

How can I ever entertain such hopes? How

Do I have the audacity, to compose such

Luscious heavens? I am but a tramp, half-crazed,

Caught up in the malaise of unhappy existences,

I struggle to daily transmutate. How can I be your

Role model? How can I provide you with hope; except

For within, the sacred environs, of two tender arms,

That speak with greater eloquence, than my tongue

Ever can? For all my experience and disillusionment,

I still feel an affrighted virgin – a mountain monk

Celibate; killing myself with nettle soup, and

Chanting scriptures, that will have to suffice, in

Place of an absent touch. Bug am I not always being

Touched? Does not the sky embrace me?

Do not the mountains readily enthrone me? And,

Is it not the autumn mist, with which my soul

Is seasonally kissed? I am a fool – I could

Never be the hero – I must be Mercutio or

King Lear – Dear, dear, dear! I am too

Much of a prankster, a fixer, a trickster – but

Does not the Trickster, too, cry out for love? Does not

The Fixer demand a bride, to lay the follies of his benighted

Cunning aside? Someone to exculpate him

From his virginal taint – to be loved as a

Man – not an unhappy saint?

III. INTERMEZZO

So, you have seen some of it now –

I have allowed myself to be unmasked –

(Though with too much stage make-up

For this revelation to last) –

I have taken you as a tourist, through my heart –

Through my private Heavens and Hells –

Do you feel you know me better? Can you

Feel me within yourself? Do you hate me

More, or love me less? Or do you admire

Me for finally attempting to express, what,

For too long, my dignity, has assayed to suppress?

Ah, fuck dignity! Dignity be gone! I will crumple

Myself at your feet, like a failing conflagration, and

Demand that you touch me – that just once

You burn your fingers, on these icy pinnacles of flame:

My body is a fire,

Only you can put out,

But still – it is not enough –

There is too much left – I want to

Give you more, to explore every drawer,

Every last compartment, snow-strewn escarpment,

Every sun-scarred ridge; every last follicle

Of skin stung by mosquito or midge; I feel

Responsible – I want to give you some little

Hope – some stainless technique of solace

You can use as a rope. If I must

Give you more, then let it be this:

Be a musician to the moment;

A singer to the stars, a poetizer

Of experience, a raving drunkard

In every bar – be an intimate lover, to each

And every last thing: to every insect, bird, rock, man,

Woman, fish, or tree – to everything that sings:

Whatever you experience – celebrate it –

You every peril, your every pain, your

Every amnesty, your every chain; your joy,

Your grief, your wakefulness, your sleep, your

Ecstasy, your agony, your clarity, your confusion, your

Disparity, between what you love, and what

You would like to be – your love, your romance –

Your mad shaman’s dance – with this royal perfusion,

You can transport us all to gold – this is your sacred

Tool-kit – The Paint-box of your

Soul.

IV.

But, if you return into the raging

Prison, that I call my heart, you will

Find your name, writ upon every cell,

Emblazoned on every myocardial fibre – every

Throbbing wall of this blood-pumping dell. I chant your name to

Pass the time, and, doing thus, I have never felt

More alive, you are very easy to love – to you?

I fancy I am not – but perhaps amongst these

Wildish words, some understanding will be got.

V.

But, I cannot leave it there – I

Promised not to end on a pessimistic

Note; to give you some mote of hope – but

How can I urge others to self-believe, when to

The potential of being loved myself, I so struggle

To toast?

So, maybe it could happen –

Maybe you could love me –

Maybe I don’t have to be typecast as Koko,

And find my courtesans eloping with

Less headless men? Maybe? Maybe!

A thousand Maybes! A torrent of Maybes! A

Pigswill of Hope, groping for something on which

This hollow heart can float; consumed by grotesque

Diners, and the squalid old man who lives in my

Moat. Oh, Hope do not desert me! Pray,

Courage, lend me your oar, so I can help

Myself and others, get to The Other

Shore, and make it in time for my

Wedding Day – Oh look! – They’ve

Just thrown the bouquet! And on each

Painful convolvulus is written,

A charitable omen of Hope.

VI.

So, for now, time is still stood still –

Your tenancy in my arms, brooks no

Eviction, we need no conviction, to know

That the united front, of every heart beat’s exeunt,

Is the only pulse we need for our days – Let’s leave

It there, in that shallowest of Heavens. I will

Take off my mask, one last time, and

Crested aloft on un-urgent rhyme, I will

Leave you the space,

To kiss unclothed face –

Finally seeing inside,

With Hope open wide,

I climb up on the rocks

And am killed by my bride.

And, on what wisdom, has our bread been leavened?

That separate, we are but tiers of Hell – but Together

The Fabric

Of Heaven.

VII.

If I must

Give you more, then let it be this:

Be a musician to the moment;

A singer to the stars, a poetizer

Of experience, a raving drunkard

In every bar – be an intimate lover, to each

And every last thing: to every insect, bird, rock, man,

Woman, fish, or tree – to everything that sings:

Whatever you experience – celebrate it –

You every peril, your every pain, your

Every amnesty, your every chain; your joy,

Your grief, your wakefulness, your sleep, your

Ecstasy, your agony, your clarity, your confusion, your

Disparity, between what you love, and what

You would like to be – your love, your romance –

Your mad shaman’s dance – with this royal perfusion,

You can transport us all to gold – this is your sacred

Tool-kit – The Paint-box of your

Soul.

 

POEM: Rain – Love – Hell – Play

hell

I love the rain

I love rolling around

In your divine corpse flesh

We hurry on up

To the grove of Bacchus

The tortured goal

Of our tortured souls

I don’t think anybody

Would want to be

Caught short here

Eyes piercing out of

Penetrative darkness

The maleficent syntax

Of unwholesome woodnotes

Casting your nightmares

Into hundreds of permutations

Of Mind-Warping sorrow

But no matter how many

Hell realms I traverse

Hungry ghosts

And lonesome demons

Clawing at my legs

And reversing my eyeballs

In their sockets

To make me look back

At the bloodied road

The brought me here

I still only

Think of love

The one precious jewel

To protect me

In every battleground

Every wasteful coliseum

Every haunted mind palace

Of my most disgusting delusions

A traceless murderer

Who has tracked me since childhood

Legions of Roman feet

Stamping me into the stones

Come over some time

And I’ll cook you a curry

Mahakala will pour us wine

As we cuddle into

Eachother’s fears

And use love as the flame

To roast us both together