Poem: The Nursery of Pluto

goya

The baby crawled its way out of the corpse,
Feebly making its way through tendons and intestines,
Weeping and necrotic, in this world of black nightmare,
The soft, pink hands, making quick work of ribs,
Snapping them like twigs underfoot

Out there, the ritual continues,
The agents of disinterment
Dance to the tempo of up-shovelled corpse,
Binge-drinking bodily fluids,
And other symbols of the devil’s ejectamenta

Like lice in the furrows of rotting woods,
The baby makes good its moribund mission,
Most of the sternum has collapsed now,
With the pelvis and loins faring little better,
All falling away, like slops of gelatinous pudding,
Yummy ice-cream to nurse an infant

Who put him there?
In this strange cradle, where lungs should be,
A nursery emerges, a whole battalion of infants
None crying, but intent on a purpose,
All magnetized by some invincible direction,
The prospectors and fruit of a new resurrection

Advertisements

Poem: The Giantess

giantess

The train is a mouth filled with bodies,
A woman so thin, a twist of the wind
Could snip her spine. Amidst this melee,
The throng of half-digested humans,
Coursing, unsalivated, down a metal throat,
Takes me back to a dream of yesternight,
Beholding my miniature in utter abjection,

Out there, among the mountains,
I beheld her – a Giantess –
Thighs thick as redwoods,
Hips carving fissures in the wombs of valleys,
Her belly a promise of sugar-softened night,
Her breasts the haven where I sought rest,
The resting place of heaven’s talons

I wanted her to see me,
To spy me through the pines,
Peeping tom on an industrial scale,
Voyeur windswept by wood and lichen,
Head filled with planets, and astrolabes,
An inferiority eclipsed
By your magnificent size

How could I become part of that?
Merge with the mountain?
Over the strength of stars and nebulae,
Eyes engage in a dance
Of potent stillness,
With more anticipation in a single stare
Than you’ve felt in your entire life

I knew better than to look away

Over the backdrop of snowy escarpments,
Birds softened by your silence,
All deadened by the dread of your destruction,
I could only look,
Hope to be seen,
Hope not to be seen,
A Lestrygonian on holiday,
Indifferent to weak human meat

But never quite meeting,
No Hieros Gamos,
Just the charge of potential,
Igniting over valleys,
And the inevitable depression
Of awaiting detonation

Walk on giantess,
I’ll keep sleepwalking,
And hope to stumble into your heart
Or else crushed to death by your feet

Poem: Problem of Proserpina

Proserpina.jpeg

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: Dragonborn

Chinese-Water-Dragon_art

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

Poem: Sex In The Winter

croc

Winter is the time for love,
Getting naked before the fire,
Headlong in the hearth,
Our bodies soft and warm
To elegiac cracked branches,
Wind threatening to chew up the house
Where origins grind apart

With the trees bare,
Asymmetry of bones everywhere,
Reflected in Death’s ribs,
What can we do but grow fat,
Fucking to the scent of burning pine?

The fire makes you sweat,
Painting your body with my lips,
Squeezing your belly, fermenting
Elixir from your breasts,
Everything descends thighwards,
To the Gateway of Womb,
Gravity is a sweet thing
When it weights me to you

You fuck me because I am not you;
I fuck you because you are not me

And why not?

For out in the woods,
The wolves are taut, alerted,
The sands in the hour glass,
The creatures in the swamp;
To dust we’ll be converted

So before we die
And the only worms to penetrate us
Are the sisters of putrefaction,
Let’s taste what little pleasure there is to be had
In this world of perpetual woe

With the rhythms of the sea,
Madness of a gale,
Severed heads on battlements impaled,
The guards will capture us, mid-orgasm,
And what’s left of our moribund lust
Will be the breeding zone of crows

So kiss me, darling,
And let me squeeze you,
Before time chews off our toes,
Death isn’t the end – just another kind of sex,
So the loving one knows,

Poem: Trip to Birmingham

clock-tower-on-a-rainy-day-theresa-napolitano

To make the train tide bearable,
Hallucinating mountains in the mist,
Invading Midlands with Celtic madness,
Obscuring horizons with mind escarpments,

To stop the crush of people,
The crossed knees, twitching fingers,
Glazed eyes with hermetic headphones,
The invasion of territory,
In this enclosure of ribs,
My soul needs space to breathe

Disembarking at the university,
Riding the stripes of zebra crossings,
Spectral, the clock tower,
Phallus of the diurnal, emerges,
Dictating the lines of tidal students,
The glowing face, a giant’s candle,
Luminating the cold supper time of Winter

Students regard me as a thing to eat,
What am I – a new professor?
Some expert on the Permian Extinction,
Or the magma inside ourselves?

Truly, a universe, but a universe
Excited by the discovery of itself,
Attaching microscopes and electrodes,
To its limbs and excrescences,
Seismographs to measure the shudders,
It feels inside its soul

If I could just turn back the clock,
And roam silent down empty corridors,
Stick my tongue in marble’s frozen blood,
The haemoglobin inside the cells
Of a monolithic structure,
The lifeforce waiting behind a suture

Then in a dazzling array of colour,
I could be my sister, my father, my brother,
And with no one to read time from my entrails,
The coroner would leave me alone

The city is a colourful thing,
Resting cancer in my bones

Poem: Scarcity and Piezoelectricity

magnetism-justin-struble

Yearning to learn the world through you,
Resultingly incommunicado,
The Geographer’s brains dashed,
No longer stalking ley lines,
Dowsing the aether with magnetic bones,
The normality of things tinged with a romance
Souring to non-completion

Saturn in his horned house,
Leers at lion hearts,
Hard work, obstacles, drudgery,
The onus of space and time,
Leaving hope at the terminus
Of so many calendars,
No day enjoyable just for itself,
But for the lure of what it might lead to

II.
The only reified thing is past,
Museum of petrified memories,
Relics of brief happiness,
Walking on cold beaches,
The way you took off your underwear,
Laying on your back,
Splayed legs inviting me home

Sleeping, enwombed in engrams,
These memories can live,
My cord umbilical, leading to you,
Not a putrescent present

III.
Had you come,
I would have said:

“This house is 500 years old;
In it are tenants of morphic resonance,
The magnetic remains of so many struggles,
The pain, hope, loss, of all these centuries,
Refined to a single structure.

“Someday, you too will die,
And your body, relinquishing its minerals,
Became a fountain of sand, of limestone,
Of jewels, which, christened by millennia,
Your ancestors will mine,
To lend hope to their own thirsty struggles.”

But a speech unprettified
By no one hearing it,
Rusts in the mouth
Into copper Verdigris,
Traded on currency’s disenchantment

The economics of Scarcity,
Run the weathered heart,
Making sacred
The rarity of fulfilment

Poem: The Flagellant of St. Mary

Flagellants

Coming out of the cold,
The cathedral swallows me,
Digested in its stone belly, malformed,
Another soul lost in masonry,
Another thread in the cosmic carpet,
Another crypt of passing years
Who momentarily walks

From another chapel,
Far away as The Southern Pole,
Voices are caught in webbed transepts,
As I am caught in yours

The whole day I’ve tormented myself,
Bearing guilt for whom I cannot reach,
Those bridges of glass,
Locked in frozen waves,
I am not the key,
Trapped in a man’s body,
No breasts, no blood,
No moon-rent thighs,
No softness to usher in
The tidings of a mother’s heart

For gendered thus,
An evil history is my inheritance,
My very form a symbol of rapacity,
Corruption and vile molestation

I can do nothing right in your eyes

But reaching out,
How fain would I warp this skin,
Invert my genitals,
Hollow myself a womb,
Just to release you from yourself,
Be parturient of your happiness

Skulking in graveyards,
Clothing myself in the skin of ancestors,
All their bodices, and muslins, and Catholic veils,
The Priestess hiding in the gloaming

Can’t you see what lies it all is?
Behind this masque of body,
The Venetian rites of tubercular quarry,
Peel away presence, the whole cosmos
Is the mist of my luminous ashes,
My passion is the sun,
My coolness the moon,
Their union the love I give you

But man-bound, all is odium,
Emasculated by being a man,
I am a half-way thing,
Neither here nor there,
There is no vacancy, no hollow,
In which my love is welcome,
A holy well nobody seeks,
A pilgrimage nobody walks

Behind the silence of my mind,
The Soul is the one that talks

II.
Nevertheless,
I must cohabit with dualities,
Trade in falsehoods,
And gendered neuroses,
Evermore my own flagellant,
My vicious atoner,
In the Chapel of The Mother of God

If I cannot be the Virgin Mary,
Wombless, I wander in Nod

Poem: Shepherd’s Home

shep

Closed for refurbishment,
Your body old sandstone,
Invasive ivy between your ribs,
Sheep-haunches scratched against your bricks,
Looking out cold on a field of rooks

Still, we cling to the past,
Mourning the loss of openness,
Where we once found love,
Only ramparts and battlements,
With scars, over-touched,
Prompting unwanted wars,
When all I needed was a hug

So, let’s tear up the carpets,
Burn all the furniture,
Drive out the harpies
Squatting in the aviary

These walls are still thick
And ripe for love,
There is still a hollow before the hearth,
Where we can ensconce ourselves for winter

Wanting to find you sweet,
I only come away bitter

II.
I carry on as shepherd,
Watching my flock die,
One by one, growing thin,
Wool stained red by tooth of dog

I live among ruins,
Bat dung dwellings,
Approaching tentatively with a candle,
You never dare to come in

For what home can I offer you,
Among all this carrion?
Where my rugs are all of stranger’s skins,
Finding jewels in all my sins

No, you love the cold of the North,
Not my cold, the cold of the South,
Skin picking off the corners of my mouth,
My icicled spine,
Merging with tree bark,
To lay with woodlouse and loam

Now I am the Shepherd’s bothy,
Now I am the shepherd’s home

Poem: Eruption

fire.jpg

A mad moment of clarity,
All the errata of darkness,
Filtering through venules of light,
Chasing into temples of celebration,
The soul’s fiery festivities

And what will these fires ignite?
Dancing in fertile conflagration,
All those agents of Mithras,
Whirling,
Exploding,
Lapping up light in unending channels,
Perfecting Thunder’s Animus

Of course, the ground cracks,
Lava caressing broadening fissures,
The world makes revelations
In the most disastrous of abruptions

Because exposes of the soul don’t come cheap,
Costing nothing less than the price of peace,
Invading every stratus,
Every acre of stability,
To usher the new age in

Now the world has collapsed,
Now the world will begin