Poem: The Heiress’s Dream

Waterhouse, John William, 1849-1917; Fair Rosamund

The Heiress sits in her tower,
Surrounded by bric-a-brac, manuscripts,
Decks of cards, only the costliest of garments –
Never has a suicide looked more luxurious,
Cocooned in suffocating silk

She is waiting

At half-past nine,
The mysterious stranger will arrive,
His black boots clicking down the hallway

Dressed in green brocade,
Hands concealed in leather gloves,
You wait for the pressure of his sun-warmed fingers,
To constrict like a serpent around your neck

Now, you can feel it all unfolding, slowly,
Detached audience member at your own undoing:

The gradual loss of air,
Constrained carotid and jugular,
Creeping onset of cyanosis,

Then, thumbs locking together, pushing deeper,
Waiting for the fateful click of hyoid process,
Rupturing your windpipe with a haunting measure,
You’ve reached the point beyond which
Your compact cannot be broken

But, of course, he disappears before it hits –
Why must my love be like this?

No one ever returns,
Just the hag-like phantom,
With her leprous white hound
Whose maw is toothless and raw

The footsteps are just a bat’s echolocation,
And your heart’s in the cobblestone floor

Poem: Lilith


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: Kink On Crescent Moon


When she smiles,
Her eyes become crescent moons,
Sentries blinking out from Turkish sheets,
Soft strokes caught in the tangles of dream catchers,
The train roaring past where we lay in her hammock,
Exchanging music as a common currency,
Interspersed with titbits of languid philosophy

But, it is not to be helped
That shared nakedness unveils all errors,
All the bed-bugged blankets,
The disallowance of masculine expression,
Forever the second woman in the bed,
Casting tears on the proceedings

“I have toys if you want to play,
Genitals tingling lubricated,
Electrodes to ensnare your clit,
Grant seismic jolts to your swollen nipples,
Offer everything a boy could want,
Except genuine affection
Or exchange of feeling”

I am not just a dick with a brain attached,
A dildo animated with life,
My male form is incidental to the cosmos,
I am a soul first and foremost,

But who cares for souls at all
When crucified on hollow passions,
Sharing all tenderness but that sincerely felt?

Of course, I can choke you,
As I grind against your ass,
I can wrest moans from you,
Play you like an instrument

But God forbid I should have feelings,
Still wearing your scars like medals,
God forbid a man should be anything
But a dick, a bank account, an amalgam
Of muscles – a sacred patronus
Of sex and security

May you forever be cursed with sensitive men,
With non-acquisition of the superficial,
Next time you want something divest of meaning,
I suggest you study The Law,
Or fuck a gigolo,

No scars from crescent moons,
Or incense-laden beds,
I wish I’d never met you,
That my confidence wasn’t dead

Go fuck yourself on your own hollowness;
I’ll be more careful when I undress