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: 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:Kafka In The Bedroom

You thought you would’ve wanted this,
But like Kafka’s ‘Country Doctor,’
Pulling away the sheets,
Expecting the reward of pearly skin,
You met with the spectre of gangrene,
The maggot-tongued sore in my side

That is my pelvis,
A warren of pestilence,
The finger-bore of blood marks,
The war inside the roses,

You try to conceal your grimace,
With the tact of a scarred hostess,
Replacing the covers,
We continue to kiss,
As though all weren’t rotten beneath us

It’s only a courtesy gesture, of course;
No sooner than dawn comes,
And you’ve wrangled me for
The necrosis of your last orgasm,
You’ll wipe the gangrene from the bed,
And my affection with it,
Like so many crumbs,

Embarrassed by the light,
You’ll inter me into a grave,
Inscribed ‘Pleasures Past,’

Then, like Kafka’s ‘Country Doctor,’
You’ll rape my lady servant,
Washing away the skin of my ink,
With the perfume of her blood

Never but every few seconds
Did you think sepsis would taste so good

Poem: Sex Pollution

Knowing better than to believe in gentleness,
A figment of the wind,
People use you as objects,
A sage to be burned on the mantlepiece –
An extension of her masturbation

Now sex is polluted,
A contagion of fear,
Floating monsters with trailing spines,
Heaps of genitals,
Oozing over whalebone corsets

Floaty dresses, starched collars,
Knife for a phallus,
Teeth-tiered jaw for a cunt,
Let’s genetically cripple each other,
Pounding my scrotum in an infernal mash,
I can turn your torso,
Into a buffet of entrails,
A human bank account,
From which I make my withdrawal

Turning the lights on,
It’s easy to see,
Why I can’t go any further

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

Poem: Nothing Good Ever Happens In August

Nothing good ever happens in August,
Month of false hopes and skewed desires,
Amidst the fruition of berries,
The nauseating silence of robins,
In the hills of The Cotswolds
I reaped a sickly harvest,
Putrescent with distrust,
Undermining faith
In anything at all

My dreams had foretold all:
Herds of bulls trampling your corpse,
An invasion of beetles suckling your veins,
Every cell of your legs pincushioned with needles,
As you lay, bloated and blue in the bath.
Is it small wonder the policeman shot your child,
Leaving his pulp to merge with the dirt?

Nothing is wonderful to me
In this freakshow of marvels,
A steady conveyor belt of disappointments,
Hiding in stainless steel perfection

But I was willing to go along with it,
To be seduced by museums, by undiscovered
Entomology cases, a hidden universe of iridescence,
The praying mantis my future. What does he pray for
But more things to be ensnared? For more men to fuck
While she eats off their heads?

Go on, I’ll put up with it. Look blindly on
As you take me inside of you, my face
Pulled off, fascia by fascia,
Rent by your mandibles;
The pain and humility we’ll face
For the prospect of happiness,
Until we hear the skull-crunch,
The soft implosion of sinuses,
And we realize with a thud:
It’s all to no good

Because nothing good ever happens in August,
When you stumbled faceless down murderous streets,
So blue-eyed and brainless, you can’t even see this
For what it is. The whole while dreaming of jewels
And diamonds, of Lords and Ladies in their palaces,
Of beauty offered gentle,
In oriental dressing gowns

You may make your trek to Pre-Raphaelite churches,
Paint your brain silly with William Morris stained glass,
But her mandibles still eat eagerly of your flesh;
The hellish truth of reality cannot be suppressed:

Because nothing good ever happens in August,
When you have sex in a spider’s nest

Poem: Warring States

The pressure is mounting,
Perched on a branch, in a matrix of lust,
Entirely invested in the warp and weft,
The want and hunger for shape and colour,
I cannot ignore that iridescent sheen of red,
That just-so poise of geometric isolation,
I must assimilate it – take it into my heart,
Make peripheries crumble in deliquesced wanting,
The insanity of a smell that arouses taking,

It makes me quiver,
A shaking, desiring, eye-captured thing,
Prostituted to my own senses,
The irresistible blister of this itching cathexis,
Turning me into the prisoner of my own libidinous
Investments

Are you my enemy,
Or are you my lover?
I cannot distinguish anger from desire,
The sacral pulse of over-strained flesh,
Of celibacy combined with concupiscence

Because in violence,
There is the clawing away of skin,
Unplugged blood vessels,
There is the maggoty worming
For interiorization intense

And in lust,
The tender drill-bits are no less integral,
Fingers are knives that pierce to the essential,
The sadomasochism of simply being yourself,
When that ‘self’ is a spasm of wanting

Then I become nothing less than a bear,
Tearing out its opponent’s throat,
Like the cruel Jazz musician,
Who kills you with a single note,

And hanging on to that wasp-sting of over-strained brilliance,
I will find the beauty and danger of meeting with essence

 

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!

 

 

Poem: Confessions of a Cross-Dressing Frankenstein

Today I missed you so much

I put on your underwear

I felt it was as close as I could get

To being near you again

It was as thrilling and exciting

As it was fundamentally depressing

Like climbing into your lover’s coffin

And waiting to for death to strike

Still, whilst I’m here,

I might as well enjoy it

And caress your sensuous skeleton

As I admire the murky moistened mud

That towers either side of us

I used to be a cross-dresser

Wearing women’s clothing all the time

Then I took

A several year jaunt

In manhood

Refashioning myself as a dandy

An ignoramus pretty boy

Straight from a Wodehouse novel

With cravat, perfect for choking

Either myself or others

Then spirituality struck

Gender became more ambiguous

Two forces

Raging into impact

That were always destined

To fuck

Now I spend my days

Visualizing myself as a goddess

The world shaking

Along the gelatinous curves

Of my erogenous hips

It was only a matter of time

Before I returned to your underwear

And found femininity

Lurking in my subconscious

Waiting to assault me

What I have learned from all this?

The mastery of synthesis

That which we lose

Can never be lost

That which we bury

Can always be unburied

Rising from the dead

To mate with the living

Like an orgiastic zombie

With a taste for seasoned genitals

Instead of brains

Take the broken parts of you

And fix them altogether

In the salvage yard of your mind

You can become a beautiful Frankenstein

For all the world to love

I will grieve at the burning windmill

Wishing you were still here

As I eat cold soup

From a blind man’s hands

My knickers getting

Wetter

And

Wetter

 

Poem: Windowsill Dream – A Thousand Orgasms

Today I saw a girl

Who looked a bit like you

I felt no fear

I just wanted to leap on her

And dance in front of her

Like a peacock

Waving my imperial fan

And tyrian scarf

As she sat on the window ledge

I would’ve lain naked before her

And allowed her to claim me

Like the insane Drukpa Kunley

Playing dead before a demon

She probably just would’ve have laughed

And I would’ve taken that laughter

And multiplied it into

A thousand orgasms

For the benefit of all sentient beings

What an impenetrable moment!

How terrific I am!

Come visit me in the sewers

It would be nice to show you around