Poem: Wheel of Fortune


Come, past vases of Diana,
Pomegranates of Proserpina,
The shamanic contortions of Neptunian Triton,

Witness the agony of my ivory chest,
The sternum, over-real, where my soul is a guest,

The haunting procession of perfect bodies,
Wasted in the round of fortune

Unhappiness scarred on every face,
Like the carving of a tomb


Poem: Arachne’s Web


It’s all about the spider women,
Fierce progenitors of ionic columns,
The distance, the space, the depth of touch,
Of giving into madness – but not too much,

Dancing, with my legs in the air,
My eyes in another dimension,
I held hands with the ageless aether,
The keeper of souls, the doorman, the weeper

Then creeping through strata of sunlight,
Crisscrossed with wombs of delicate night,
The sexual antagonism of tribal warfare,
Stretches the membrane between pain and delight,

Tattooed with pulses and invasions of colour,
Smearing the ash across our bleeding palms,
I vault through the boundary of the stained-glass window,
And look for the ecstasy that violence disarms,

With shadow puppets, and leprous hounds,
The jewels reclining in this vault of tears,
Every trauma has a platinum lining,
Every hope is embroidered with fears,

The pelvis, the coccyx, the base of the spine,
The terminal nausea of romantic procedure,
This is the sea-change in which I am caught:
The sadness of the unbelieved non-believer,

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: Rodin’s Eve


Bundling your breasts in your arms,
Eve, how can you be expelled from the garden,
When you are the garden?

The serpent king smites you on stony ground,
With only aching deserts
And a plague of locusts,
You must turn to yourself in comfort,
The auto-eroticism of loneliness,
Becomes the plague blanket of confession

Shivering in your sleep,
And the sunset of silence,
Your swollen belly pregnant,
With the offspring of the world

I feel only pity-seasoned desire
At your Hesperidian folly,
For the fruit of Eden is wet
To tempt the teeth of all

Poem: The 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: 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: Problem of Proserpina


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: Sex In The Winter


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: Endymion and Selene


Lazily languishing in lingering love,
I would recline, head in lap,
Listening to your breath while you read,
Partially deafened by the weight of your breasts,
Drifting in and out of sleep,
Belly swelling, falling,
An abdominal sea,
I, the bladderwrack,
Enwrapping your thighs,
Upon the midnight shore

If I never had to wake up,
Trapped forever in that idyllic twilight,
The lurching madness of hypnagogia,
Licking sweetly with its tongue,

Then sleep on I would,
In that abyss of endless comfort,
With only the warmth of your body
To tell me of the world

The Goddess reads,
The boy god sleeps,
The oyster and the pearl

Poem: The Flagellant of St. Mary


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

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