Poem: The Waiting Room


Sitting in a waiting room, I see the piercing, pungent

Eye of God cut through the reality of the hospital’s

Environs to look penetratingly down upon me


“Give me hope, you blistering bastard of light!” I cry, I rail,

“O, if you must fill my heart with a poisonous pain that

Recycles itself in perpetuity, at least give me hope in an

Earth-bound after-life that comes after sadness – hope

That your light is not just an illusion, but a true realization

Of sweet happiness’s rebirth.


“Let not this happiness, so newly come, be so newly lost –

I know ‘the course of love seldom runs smooth,’ and

I’m inclined to doubt anything that does – but cannot I at

Least experience some stability in love? I do not expect

Anything to last forever; but after so long of living in pain

And unhappiness, cannot I at last sink fully into and be

Cleansed by my bath of love, before the plug is so hideously



“It is the nature of your love,” accused a floating nurse,

“To become all that you love – and so become a curse –

But in invading that space, you become an object of hate,

And scare away those you would most love.”


“Fine! Make of me a monster – a parasite!” I said

In defence. “But it is the nature of love to invade

And be invaded – it is a holocaust – a bloody fucking



“I am invaded by the love I feel for what I love;

Wish to invade the loved one with my love; and

Have them, in turn, invade me with their love.”


“Sounds like a sexual metaphor to me!”

The Coffee Machine incriminatingly hummed.


“This has nothing to do with sex,

As sex has nothing to do with the

Full penetration of love!”


“Speak for yourself – I’m just a coffee machine –

The closest I come to love is when the technician

Returns to re-stock my beans!”



Though slightly soothed, the portal to heaven

Still open before me, uncertainty yet was found

Pacing around me, foaming like a dog-foaming



“Will she? Won’t she?” I asked myself

And The Universe, watching a window-shade

Tremble flutteringly at the slow, pale anxiety

Of my flutter


Then I thought of those I had erstwhile loved,

And wished they would find the love elsewhere

Which to me they could not return


Then a pregnant nurse came in and talked of the

Spiritual investment that had become her charge;

And I thought that, if the child bore even a trace of

The happy purity that beatified her face, then I could

Stroke the black purr of my pain, knowing the world

Would soon be a better place.


This is what The Eye of God can show you

When you have nothing better to do

But wait




Poem: My Wings


It has been a cold morning.

Nethelweiss, The King of Frosts, has

Stretched his hands over the grass,

And turned all the plants and grounds

Of the land into palaces of sparkling



I closed my eyes, and I saw you:

Naked, crouched, in the middle of

A lagoon – pooled in oily darkness


But, for all that darkness, you shone

So brightly – how could you not be

Stirred from your tenebrous

Self-hatred by the heraldic majesty

Of your beauty?


I swam towards you; to hold you;

To be near you – you changed into

A crow; flew away – and what

I first thought was a rejection, was

An invitation to flight – an overture

To play


Up in the heavens, lands of pure energy,

We sparkled, and flew, and twisted as

Dragonflies, our wings beating out

Whirlwinds of pleasure, as we wove

Helices of love



But our eyes speak more

Than our tongues can say –

Ours is a friendship

Of poetry and silence:

Kneeling beside eachother

In prayer, in a sacred cathedral

Of pure sapphire, where no

Words can ever be spoken.


If only you knew how many journeys

I have gone on for you, my dear.

How many rivers I have washed my

Heart in, so I might be pure enough

To kneel beside you.


Let me be your angel – your guardian –

Your protector. Let me cocoon you in

My wings, and shield you from all of

Life’s Tortures. May your blows be my

Blows. May your pain be my pain. And

May your smile be the sunrise that

Lures me into every tomorrow.



Once said, these prayers cannot be unspoken.

And, in the light of a spell that cannot be broken,

My wings will be yours



Poem: Eliza and the Sea


Let me tell you a tale of the worlds


She sat upon the jagged rocks,

The sea surged about her –

They were her allies – her closest

Friends – her sources of strength and power


The spray, the mist, the foam, the

Bladderwrack, the sunken submarines,

And great triumphal arches of gored

Mountain sides


She sat upon the rocks.

And surged along with the surge



Let me tell you a tale of the worlds

There is the Overworld

And the Underworld

And within these two concentric circles,

All things overlap, interpenetrate, unite,

And fight, so that, from the One, comes

Two, and from the Two, comes




She sat upon the rocks,

The mist, the spray – all hers first –

She sat upon the rocks


She knew she would have to

Go out to sea any day now. The

Gulls in all their sky-ambling circularity

Of prophesy; every strident laugh, a

Signal of an unforgettable voyage, already

Forgotten, memorized by the sea, until it



“Embark! Embark!” the winds call,

And the anchors drop. “Embark! Embark!”

Cry the clouds. They are hungry with thunder,

The sea populated with embryonic waves, that

Paint the jagged curves of Chaos’s sweet



“I am Captain Eliza O’Malley,” she

Said in consideration of herself. “I am

The Greatest Stowaway of my Age. I was

Forbidden entry into this world by The Lady

Of the Lake. But, I am The Lady of the Sea!

The shipwrecks are all a-search for me,

But they will never find me.”



So, it is possible to be a feast

For all things:

To keep a foot in one world –

A webbed toe in another


Christ will wash your foot in one world,

Satan will manicure your toes with his tongue

In another;

Then they will trade places,

For they are both the same



Eliza O’Malley was the Captain

Of her ship. She would sleep all

Night in the beak of storms – in the

Gills of stentorian leviathan, struggling

To sleep in the deeps


She had killed all her family,

And left them behind her,

But families are just ghosts out here,

And everybody must kill a ghost,

Before they go out to sea


Eliza sang her song:

“If those waves were ladders

That snaked downwards instead of

Upwards, how fast would I have to be

For them to appear statuesque and

Still? A typhoon is a portal – the swilling

Of seawater in Neptune’s jaws, before he

Turns off the faucet of time. I have read of The

Esquimaux – how their seafaring shamans

Would dive to the bottom of the ocean,

To brush the knots in Sedna’s locks.


“But who will unleash the locks

In my own hairs? Can’t you see how

Every strand interlinks with a cloud;

Every cloud interlinks with a station;

And every station interlinks with a

World? These are all just different

Frequencies, my dear. They shift and

They slide, and oil the tide, of the swift’s

Wings, in blackness, beside,


“So, world-strewn is my hair.

But, if braided, tressed, and spun

Out for miles, these hairs and

Fibrils would seem like nothing.

 I would raise my arms up to the

Sky – the sky would lower its arms

To me – for every lass must marry

The Sky, afore she go to sea!”



Eliza wrote this story by a lantern,

A tender flame – we call it ‘a sun’

In our universe – but it is but the reflection

From the window of a moving train in hers


A black shadow with blue and crimson eyes

Climbed into the galley of her ship where she

Kept her quarters:


“What do you do, Eliza?” he asked her.

“Is this your life: just to roam and be



“Isn’t it everyone’s?” Eliza shouted

Back defiantly, slamming down her

Gin. “How can you escape the wanderlust

Of ages? The nautical lust to want to be

On the other side of the porthole? To

Lash yourself to the pounding heart

Of every tide? To set sail astride the stars,

And dip your feet into the udders of galaxies,

Until you are completely stranded in the isometry

Of time’s restless motions?”


“But you are all alone,” the shadow

Said softly. “Where are the people in

Your life? Where are you friends? Where

Are all the smiling eyes that will nestle

Kindly upon the words you’ve written

In these pages?”


“I AM THE SEA!” Spake Eliza.

And she said it with such power,

That no one would dare doubt her.

“You maggoty false-breed! You trifling

Piece of spume! You tornado squeezing

Out of the flatulent arse of time! How

Dare you drift into my quarters, with your

Insinuating words, and half-spun slogans,

And question my worth for the world?!

I am The Lady of the Sea!

And you would all be nothing

Without me.”


The shadow smiled at his case.

And disappeared once again into the dark.



Eliza shuddered at the shadow’s words.

She had flashbacks of late nights and drunken

Mornings; of climbing into bed with sweaty breasts,

Getting lost in the limbs of hairy men, the organic

Machinery of sex, the hidden ocean within, disembarking

On crystal caverns, of groans and moans echoing through

Coves, sea-shanties of sex, that pounce of bedsprings,

Reopening ancient treasure chests, sealed, but never



She could remember all those things,

Because the sea never forgets –

It just goes on, remembering and

Forgetting, with the dementia and

Hypermnesia of every uncertain

Wave –


Sea Log: Autumn, Winter, January,

September, 1972, 1665 – the shadows

Did not come again today. But I can still

Feel his judgement. What am I doing so

Wrong? I have never experienced anything

But affirmation before. I go out

Onto the decks, and I am applauded

By every albatross. The clouds come to

Me in fetters to beg pardon for stealing

My sunshine away. But I curse the sun!

The sea is the sun’s grave! And I will

Eat his light into my belly, as sure as

What’s made beest unmade!”

(But the judgement still hung heavy about her)


“So, you want me to go back to land, do

Ye? To seek out people? Well, I tell ye,

There be no people out there! All those

Land-lubbers are just ghosts. You can walk

Through all their cities and see nothing but



“But, out here, everything is emergent.

There are no ruins. The coral reefs are

Like ancient cathedrals, robed in sand,

Rebuilt every day by the waves’ secret



But, then back to 1772,

Jocosely addressing her pirate crew:


I tell ye, boys, there be barnacles

Upon my breasts, as sure as there’s

Cockles in my larder! Let the canons

Spell out incipient destruction, and

I’ll tell you how I lay there . . .”



And, she still lays there like

That, thus-wise, with the bladderwrack

Rising up around her, a constriction of

Seaweed charming her into paralysis

Every night, searing her body in visions

So vivid, they would frighten the giant

Squids of the deep


“I tell you – I LOVE THE SEA!”

She shrilled into her writing desk.

“But, when I die, will the sea mourn

Me? Will it attend my funeral? Will

It weep for me? Or has the sea e’er

Been weeping? It is for this that it

Beest so wet?


“I have never known a dry moment

In my life. When you used to

Come towards me, Harry, and towel

Me down, how I used to scream! Don’t

Divest me of the last vestiges of my partner!

It was bad enough living in a house with you,

And not feeling the ground swell and rock

Beneath me, except when we were in bed,

Harry, my dear – I could really feel the

Curtains decked with spray then! Oh, to be

Alive and in your arms! And the arms of the

Sea! I could never tell you apart from the sea,

My Harry. So, when I was away, sailing, for

Months on end, for years, for centuries, it

Was as though I was sailing upon you, my

Harry, my love . . .


“But you land-lubbers are such ghosts!

Such ghosts, such ghosts, such ghosts!”



And so, sometimes we sail between two

Worlds; not knowing if we ever meet –

Maybe just a sudden chill – a flash of colour –

A trace of electric paint in the air.


Those are the only signals we

Might have now – no longer the

Lapping and laughing of gulls and



But we still love you, Eliza.

And we will bury you with

All your books and candles,

Until God finally rebuilds

The Sea


Poem: House of Flesh


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.



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


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




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




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



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



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.



Poem: Medievalism, Oh!


Oh, glorious, glorious gloom!

You give me so much more room

To manoeuvre

My strange, windy ways

I’d much rather an underworld

To a glittery sky palace;

Give me those burning pathways of fire

Those strange canopies of skin

From unknown bestials derived

It is a horrid factory of immaculate earth

Churning out planets in manufactured succession

The torment of tears

In every galactic eye

I ascend the bruised mountain

Searching through its scarred face

To find the erotic teachings of the past

This is my bestiary – my own private menagerie

Housing monsters and gryphons

Both shewn and showed

Down the musky, dusky husk go I

Into the perfume of Empyrean

To steal the stars from their own night owls

And teeth plucked straight from the mouth

Of the pearly, opalescent ocean

Thereat, I will plunge into

The Cascade of my potion

Dribbling into the furnace

And the fetid potluck

I swear has alchemical powers:

First the Dragon – then the Fly;

Second the Tiger – next Magpie;

Crossing across the roof of the world

To join with the moss

And the lossiest Loess

Ah, Frantic Medievalism!

Medievalism ornate and deformed!

Take me back to your DARK AGES

When books were pillows

And the sacred castles of Oddiyana

Were still ariot

With treacherous claws

But to the archfiend and the nemesis

Subdued in wrath by designer sedatives

Are now only wending their way

Through the Tartarus of Modernity:

Old People’s Homes

Arguing about who

Last saw the TV remote

And whose dementia

Is progressing the fastest

And the worst

“I’ve forgotten twelve thousand more gigabytes

Of chaotic data than you!”

Exclaims lusty Belial,

Twisting his sandwich

Into a tridental narrative

“What?” says Satan, subdued

His is brain is now only

A tuna fish sandwich

And he thinks he still sees his children

Though they died long before he ever did

It’s a sad state of affairs

When demons need enemas

And harpy-faced nurses

To put spittle on their

Unraging bones

Still Medievalism howls

In every village

Of the British and the Welsh

Wherever crows still rule

With their iron caws

And their iron claws

But I have lost my marbles completely now

So I tuck myself back in

Inside my own inviolate scrotum

And within Involution’s allure

Mark off the beginning of the day


POEM: Medicine Buddha Power


Everything’s becoming so much clearer now

I’m learning to see

The face behind the face

And the voice behind the voice

Prophecies are coming thick and fast

Memories are being unlocked

With bhaisajyaguru’s body

Of lapis lazuli radiance

I recall my self-immolation

On a vast and towering stupa

The topknot on my head

Showers blue light

In all directions

I offer:

Ghosts to ghosts

Men to men

Gods to gods

Travelling through space

I sit upon a red butte

With my Native American lover

Staring at the misty ground below

India comes and goes

Crystalline rivers

Flow through paradise

Where animals do not fight

And all beings are at ease

Ascending the sacred ziggurat

Towards the supernal lights

I will reveal all to all

And be all to all

When the Buddha lets you see

His golden body

Skeletons are sure to rot

POEM: Shaman’s Journey


I feel so much of you in me

Walking around

I feel your body

Superimposed over my own

I need to be

More emotionally open with myself

That is the main thing

I need to work at

I’m here to help

But I do need to help myself

And be helped myself

Love is everywhere

I just need to make myself

More receptive to it

And not to fear it

Isis was my consort

My guide, my lover

My age-old friend

The one who has adored me

Through it all

I just need to recall

That she is always there

The Mysterious Female

The Divine Feminine

I am effortlessly attracted

To all her emanations

And embodiments

I need to embrace my womanhood

The mother within

And not be so hard on myself

It was lovely being

In the adoration of the temple

Those supernal beings

That miasma of colour

This home where I belong

Not this atrocious earth

I’ve always felt

So much fear here

So much essential distrust

Lost in the grace of the void

How can you feel distrust

When everything is formless

Everything is unified?

This is where I am happy

In this spiritual sphere of sincerity

To go and never come back

Would be a dream uncrowned

But I still have so much

To do here

People to help

People to inspire

People to show the Way

To be a radiant drop

Of heavenly wisdom

For those seeking out

The Light

In an ocean of ignorance

So much foolishness and stupidity

In this world

Of unceasing suffering and greed

More lightness is needed

To melt this matter away

POEM: Past Life Love Song


The lowest of the low

And the highest of the high

Are sitting in the shining gutter

This seductive swamp of stars

I no longer deny my own feelings –

They simply are as they are

As I am myself

Ridiculous though we both may seem

Though I am but a void

I still want to merge with you

To find silence in your eyes

Why should I feel this way?

What karmic adventures

Have we previously been entangled in?

Were you my daughter?

My secret lover?

Or a relation

No earthly word can designate?

I just want to feel no difference

Between me and you

I find vast, all-embracingness

In this fathomless heart

So addicted to being a fool

A wandering madman

Making friends with jackdaws

And twisted branches

Still a child underneath

Confused by the world

Eaten alive by loneliness

And alien-ness

That cannot be quenched

All the same

I seek out a name for us

Some forgotten sound to justify

This opaque lens of longing

I feel for you

Could I call you my daughter?

Could I hold you in my arms

And always protect you?

I guess it’s easier to be

A father to things

When they come from your spirit

And not from your bones

But things are different now

You are in that body

And I am in this

Do you remember when we used to

Swim together through the stars?

Carving canyons in space

And mesa plains

We built many planets

We built many worlds

Worshipped by more beings

Than could ever be counted

But now we’re clotted in flesh

But somehow brought back together

I know I cannot tell you any of this

Until you are ready

I am good at keeping secrets

They are the very fabric of my body

You can’t accuse me

Of being deceitful

It is only compassion

That keeps me so quiet

So I do not scare off those

I wish to keep close

But, I hope one day

You will remember as well as I

We will always hold one another

Through creation and destruction

And you need never worry,

That I,

You father

Your husband

Your brother

Need ever leave your side

Poem: Descent into The Atrocious Palace of Yamantaka


Heaven and Hell

Are exactly the same

It just all depends

Whether you let the flames

Heal you

Or destroy you

Though they must destroy you

Before they can begin to heal you

I descend into

The Hall of Abominations

Climbing up –

So many heaps of corpses

So many heaps of gold

Desolate gongs

Throng with oscillations

Cleaving the air

Into merciless ripples

Reaching the inglorious throne room


The Father of Deathlessness

Bathes in a corona of atrocity

Cleansing himself in the scalding flames

Whilst ravenously merging with

His hideous consort

Swimming, mouth open

Through galaxies and galaxies of blood

My transformation is incomplete

But insanely exquisite

Sitting down at the table

I eat Sunday Lunch with my parents

As though nothing has happened

Knowing I will return

When my heart mantra sings