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Sunday, 13 February 2011

The Call

Ideal Woman

The Ideal Woman, held in every man's breast.

She is his soul, his vow, his eternal behest.

She is his saviour, his raison d'etre, and his severe

Test of endurance.

For his very existence is predicated on her sex.

God forbid that a man should find this Ideal in life,

As no woman to this can live up, and it will end in strife.

Keep the Ideal to the unreal if you can, lest you be led to

Overzeal and inveterate jealousy.

Every man who has glimpst the Blue Angel will

Grieve his life away, forever in despair that his

Dream will ever stay, forgotten on his pillow,

As sad as the graveyard willow.

Is each man mad if he has this Ideal

Which no woman can fulfill?

Each man destroys the thing he loves

And every man must kill or else be in

Eternal thrall of this goddess of sweet pain.

Goddess, you walk among and are present in my day,

I cannot live through this mortal estrangement

While your beauty holds sway. There is nothing

Inappropriate in my desire as it is the outcome of

Archetypal longing: as much my DNA as the colour of your

Devastating brown eyes.

Lady, don't think that your coldness can revoke what is

Written in the runes and of what the gods have spake.

I am forever yours - not through any fault of you or mine,

But because it is the sport of the heavens and the

Will of space and time.

It was love at first sight, first sound, first smell ...

How I yearn to feel what is a part of me,

and yet wrenched away

So cruel,

For ever


The Call

The Call came to stir the Blood.

Amplified, distorted, loud,

Drenched, saturated, stenched.

A mad crowd assembled,

Trembled in timeless gasp,

As New Gods flew in on

Reptile wings.

Fire arced a charred sky,

Turned horizon shattered black.

A populous throng let out a

Curdled cry,

Astounded at shapes made by

Gods, as they eclipsed

The Sun.

Slowly the Gods inched to the Earth,

In what seemed like a decade of delay;

Falling like feathers, their beauteous

Faces dazzled the mob into hush.

All became calm and the skies settled and stilled.

Gods, golden browed, with pert breasts,

Fluted phalli, limbs classically muscled,

Trod the sward in gigantic form.

Immediately they were worshipped

In orgy.

Revel Room

The music, a hypnotic repeat,

Silvered shimmer over staccato beat.

A forest of flat female profiles

Align themselves in differing styles.

The disdain of an oriental face,

Its perfect skin,

Rococo wryness,

Assassinates desire,

Polarises taste.


Towered blocks subtly resonate


Which shake the globe,

Mocking stability, while women -

Secure in their beauty - cast

Painted eyes into the miasma

Of a room.

Where do we worship?

At the imminent shrine

Of the ear-ringed goddess of fashion,

Plastic boots, heeled-high to shine,

Frozen in photographic fear.

And bearded men parade, inviolate,

To Hellenistic sounds.

The whorl of her ear,

A purged rose, garlands hair

In top-knots barbaric.

Let flesh striate in fabric roseate.

Let coloured locks celebrate

Root races and create

Combinations anew.

Leopard skin print,

Marmoreal chic boutique,

Tumescent male redmeat,

Engorged muscular columns

Assaulting the heights,

Maintain your erect stance and march;

Brawl your seed into ecstatic fights.

Bacchic revelry shall chase the sexes

Into confusion, twisting into celtic patterning,

Never ending profusion.

Your wine-red face is beauty's touchstone,

Eternity's clasp.

Black List

Nothing is as cruel as a fringed woman.
The fringe is a 'black list' in itself.

Black List

Can't get off the
Black list
until I find out who
Wrote the first
Black List,
Should he even


Fringed woman


Your flag covers a forehead pristine

And arraigns your pharaonic brows

A port-cullis to your eyes,

Those twin dungeons of desire

Whips and chains of your

Beauty that rip the flesh from my back

In steaks red raw

The Vulgar Tongue

I long for



"The ground was in my sky."

Pin this god to the wall, let him irradiate the room.

Nail this god to the tree, let him enchant the forest,

And the hills, and the lakes and the rivers,

And up into the clouds and skies.

No god can be pent in walls four.

No heaven or hell can be barricaded behind

A door. Heathens are we, bravers of the elements.

Pagans are we,

Nature's own celebrants.

Our gods are free and from inhibition estranged.

Our book is destiny and our minds deranged.

Intoxication is our prayer and the clothes on our back

Are threadbare, and carelessly do we name our deities

As dancers.


The clean lines of lean youth,

Untroubled eye,

Virginal breast.

Not to


But to these is

The poet

A slave.


Everything goes backwards.

All meaning is reversed.

'I love you' means 'I hate you',

And every theft will be reimbursed.

All things Classical are rock 'n' roll, and vice versa.

All things puritan and proper are


And perverse.


She rode her
Belly through the


In front of my ...

... Eyes.

Evil pose

Evil pose led


I can't

Get to her

Irish beak


Fate and chance,

Cosmic dance,

Reading, scrying,

Blues guitar.

Thrown in thrice,

Hangman's tree,

God of poetry,

Lucifer with thee,

Inside the vault of


Leave the past behind,

Walk on what went before.

Ride the waves of Becoming

Surf the surface.


Roots of




Blessed be

Trial and


Runes fall,


Gather them up.

A martyr's face,

Sun eye,

Clouds erupt,

Rain dust,

Loose the levin,


Make a tale,

Follow a trail.

Journey aborted,

Mission thwarted,

Nothing sorted.

Where is the fire

And flame?

Deserted shore,






Shadow caves echo,

Signs on the ancient wall.

Hex direction,




Calling out.





A clearing.

Eyes are in-roads

To other worlds

One Eye

Purple walls, shadows


Fires flicker,



Masks 'gainst

Crackling flames.

Down the

Life's war

Life's war cannot be underestimated and never denied.

All are enemies in a theatre without rules,

And founded on lies.

But be not despondent - for this is a game,

Or rather the play of the gods insane.


The reason breaks down

There is something criminal in




To Georgina

Those uncategorisable people

The strange ones

Alien off-spring

The mad ones ...

The ones who can

Roll their eyes.



She shuns me, and foments the resentment

That poisons easy livng.

She shuns me, and I retaliate in kind,

Killing the joy of giving.

She needs an enemy,

And an enema too.

She needs a conduit for the

Rectum of her negativity.


Dreams are the silent subscript of the soul.

Dreams, where my stubborn manroot is at ratchet full,

And rarely knowing why.

Dreams which evaporate so suddenly upon

Waking, resisting all desperate efforts

At recall.

And yet I am sure that my dreamworlds are

Stuffed of hieroglyphs, symbolic beasts,

And surrealist masterpieces of coprophagic women

In Sadien detail, ending in the repeated

Failure to write my name.



Woman you drive no deal

You only cheat and steal

The things of the heart.

Trust to you is unreal

And every ending

Another start

In your etrnal war

'Gainst everything masculine,

Honest and true.

I can but sue,

And raise a legion

'Gainst your

Misanthropist zeal.


Snake bite hiss,

Poisoned ring,

Seduction's Nile Betrayal

Will charm that serpent

Enloined, and by-pass, man,

What little brain you have.

Shackle woman in the Eastern way,

Lest these natural traitors have their sway.


Boudicca, your seed

Has done much to bleed

And blanch manhood's creed.

Severed balls, and chins

Smooth of stubble

Have unmanned the race

Defenceless now 'gainst

Female trouble.


Woman, you take advantage of the idealised residue,

Of when you were held in awe,

And did nothing more

Than sow and cook.

But the time will come when men will

Re-evaluate your sex,

Beyond muse and whore,

And realise that

You are the eternal spook,

And architect of the

World's fall.

Danger swaggers in the swarming sirened streets.




There was a man who thought he could live free from danger and duress.
So much so that he began to climb down from his mountain and be careless.
Not before long he became ensnared in the spideress' web.
Slowly the threads would fetter and throttle him.
The days of his solitude would be long dead.

Insistent Instance

Insistent instance,
Transient distance:
Listening to the looming
Night's silent music

I First Infection

The Park

Strutting the park like Rimbaud,
Her lustrous light-laden cheek
Tilted towards the sun's lancing rays.
Her hewn raven brow and sphinxian lips ...

'Why is the world gazing my way?'
Ask her declamatory, fierce eyes.
'I am just an ordinary woman...'

The world reels,
Besotted with her innocence.

The Road is Never Easy

The road is never easy,
It is never lax nor sweet.
There will be stones in your soul,
And blisters on your feet.

And a heart made for suffering,
Is all that one can bear,
As false-friends thrust the knife in,
While pretending that they care.

Dionysian Lamentations

Snake-black locks
Overt oval pucker
Squarejawed squaw



Enveloping dread arousal
Perseusian aversion
Medusean head
Pitted 'gainst
Serpentine encirclement.

Prometheus enchained
Josef K entrialed
Blent with

Chased to tears edge by her pursuing eyes,
I still wear this black choler,
This severed, asphyxiating, velvet-noose,
Symbol of my slavery
joyously torn
Ad infinitum

Love Melancholy

If Love be a 'species of Melancholy'*,
Then inoculate thyself with the stop-time Black Riffs of Cosmic Blues,
And ride the twelve-legged steed of suffering towards dark discords.
That place where Nothingness obliterates all harmonies,
And where only the inutterable noise of Silence reigns.

(*according to Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy)

The Lack of Love

The lack of love,
The blue abyss, and the
Bliss of an eternally

Laid in Earth

As I am laid in earth,
Would she weep for one such as me?
And yet I have wept a waterfall for her,
A flood in which she disdaineth even to dip her feet.
...I would fain those feet would trample me down,
So that I may kiss with bruis-ed lips that dappled flesh;
Spangling them with rosy clots besmeared,
And salty, sanguine, streaks of my blood.


Her ...
Her ...
It pulls,
And pools,
And shudders in
Burnt umber.
Unwilling, to credit the
Trapped in its
The securing brow,
Barring the
Brazen diver,
Desperate to
Dip into the
That is her


Bacchus invented wine as a
For those men who needed
To forget.
Just as mead
Was made from
Memory's severed

London Underfoot

Carrying her cheekbones in my
Mind's eye,
I nose through the
Squalid, slush-churned streets
That twist and swerve among
Mushrooming building-sites.
Hard-hats, high-viz and hobnails offer
The shabby comfort of uniformity.

Dragging my carcass,
Caressing memories
Of dead friends.
My still handsome head
Carves through the cold
As car-jams hiding
Louche drivers
Laugh at me.

Streets that have sloughed off
The erotic parade in favour of a
Dismal, trudging despond.

I sadly follow the
Star of her
Like a fool.

Alas, the eternal wench does
Not lead upward,
But leads astray.
Better to follow
The light of a
Dead misogynist philosopher
Than the heat of lust.

II The Trial of Tiw: Unadjourned

Bring me his head

Arms folded 'cross chest,
Hard face-mask of
Melancholia: at turns
Wan and wine red.

She wants one man
To punish another
For the madness of love.
For the disease of love.

Cruel goddess immune
To this male madness,
She calls for my head.
On a bloody platter.

Her method to wreak
This decapitation?
Only betrayal.

The crime of cold
Premeditated betrayal
'Gainst that innocent emotion
Of inappropriate love


It's the same old tale;
Bound to the mast
'mid sheets of
Siren song.

Rigid male,
Torn and blast
By the hurricano of

Heaping on
Heat and ice,
Nasty and nice, in
Unpredictable measure.

And buried
deep is the
Lure of an always
Unreachable treasure,

Bringing this sailor
To his knees,
Forever on the
Treadmill seas.

Keelhauled, he
Bounces back continually;
A hanged man
On a bungee jump.

No hero can
Conquer the Siren.
He can only dangle there
And hope for survival.

Welcome to Coventry

Welcome to Coventry,
Let them stew in their
Aloof stupidity.

No longer speak to me,
Saith vanity in its precious,
Pretentious finery.
Drunk on stale hostility,
Moonshine ressentiment,
And impotent inferiority.

Welcome to Coventry.
Let them stew in their
Aloof stupidity.

Cast not thy eye towards death,
Nor let thy breath sag beneath
The weight of oppressing dearth.
But raise up thy flaming head
From the earth and spit fire
And sulfur at the undertakers
Of the spirit and the living dead!

Welcome to Coventry
Let them stew in their
Aloof stupidity.

Heroic Laments

You cannot refuse the quest forever,
You cannot choose the nothing. Nor turn back,
To tread water, or to ignore
The call to the road, and the grail search.

For it will come to you when least expected;
When you are ill-prepared and ill-at-ease
With yourself and your world.

But for all that,
Your trial, when it comes, will be most dire.
And if you survive, your strength will be boosted
Tenfold. And your depths will plunge fathoms below.

Survival and Return - finding your way back
Over the corpses of those adversaries
Who tried to block your way and torture you.

A reluctant hero, thrust into the
Perilous Realm of initiation.
Dark Goddess, I am about to slay you:
Else I will be trapped in your Hell forever.


Wearing her slurs as medallions,
Beaten down, spat upon -
Never did I feel more
alive than now, as every
Tendon aches and every muscle
Screams its purple pain.

Darksome Eyes

Worship the darksome eyes of the wild woman.
Those midnight visors have possessed me wholly;
A stormcloud sent in vengeance silent, to
Derange my mind with their swart violence.

Am I in love with my own Hell?


Society demands mediocrity in exchange for security.
Conformity is raised above truth and honesty;
Pretend and deceive is the way to popularity
Along with false hilarity and a chorus of;
'How are you'!

But is the need for security so great today as it was in the past?
Are we not paying fealty to an anachronism that no longer deserves to last?
Let eccentricity flourish and let madmen reign,
For the Fool was always the wisest of men and the least sane.

All my heroes were considered to be madmen at one time or other.

The Ideal

Attraction/Affection makes us impute beauty [or the 'Ideal'] to the plainest
things - even to the ugliest things.
Does the inverse work? Or does repugnance not rather make us see things the way
they really are?

Poets extol the Ideal like cunt-struck
Lovers in their zeal for mere replication.
Art might be a bridge to that Ideal,
Or a substitution for the hard and real.

Life and Death Struggle

Perhaps life is a pilgrimage after all,
And the dark bitch guarding this leg of the way -
Squatting with the Toad work and plotting my Fall -
Is the Herculean trial and token to pay
The ferryman of the stagnant world below.

I am now in the most dire fight of my life -
in combat with the Evil and carnate aspect of the Divine Mother.
I am to be severely tested for the value of my truths.
The black-hearted bitch Kali wants to crush me.
She sniffed out my Void, filled it with her poison and went in for the slow,
agonising Kill.
She rushed in like a sickness.

Caught in the Spider's web - pulling away and going forward are equally

But the hag herself remains eternally trapped in her own stultifying Wilderness.
I, the victim, have what she does not have: the possibility of escape.

The Axe Fell and Cleft

... One side of my bifurcated mind is obsessed with you, dismal muse.
You perch on my right shoulder like a malicious version of Odin's Raven;
Piping not wisdom, but the siren song of madness into mine ear.


Mere love strikes like Thor's thunder - blasting, blitzing,
Blistering, breaking the ego in twain.
The victim - heroism now thrust upon him,
Must attempt to retie the knot and refrain from
Splintered thought and
See-saw emotions,
Or he shall be forever caught and consumed
By the flesh-eating bug of his own mania.

Even Beyond the Grave

Dark lady, your charm-ed circle hath me corrupted,
And my exile from hence at your cruel behest hath my life disrupted.

I did breathe thine air so poisonous,
And did enact your shifting bidding so perversely tyrannous.

Thy face is too beauteously evil for me to take in.
And yet I must drink in the elixir of your stern eyes,

And quilted lips and septum; sculpted nose and gargantuan jaw.
I cannot describe your brows as they are beyond astonishment.

Your cool visage and midnight hair -
What Devil made you and threw you in my midst?

I wish I never knew you and would like to
Slash my wrists if I were not so cowardly.

Death would be no release for me as I know to my cost,
That I would love you forever, even if my life be lost.


Three roads fan out in front:
I take the nearest first;
A Stoical road,
Not tied to a mast, nor ears stopt with wax.

But most nakedly will I bear
The brunt of the blastings of the beastess.
And I will not be turned nor will I be spurned
By fear
Nor burned, nor spun nor run:
I will stand my ground without a sound, nor murmur, nor whimper.
Cold, statuesque,
Deliberate, unyielding,

The test of stone
To cheat Medusa by playing stone dead.

III The Bridge Back


The antients were far more kinde:
For they did not care to binde
The lover to his love,
But rather opined that Eros fired his dart
Which did impinge the lover's heart
And so make him desire against his will.
And so love was a kind of ill,
And not a common idle thrill,
But destined to be, despite all.

The World is You

There is no 'evil' in itself: you impute the evil.
Therefore the Evil Mother is thine own invention: your own evil projected onto
the Mother.
The demon's eye is demon-ising.
Draw this intentionality in and remove the barb-ed sting.
Absorb the Evil Mother back into your Self.
The Mother is the World.
The World is not Evil - thinking only makes it so.
The World is You.


The test has been passed: all that needs to be done is to endure the result.
Overcome good and evil - there is a boon to be collected and taken home:
'Beyond Good and Evil' - but not beyond 'Good and Bad'.
For the noble Good is that which does not re-act:
It is certainly a Good which is not dependent upon wo-man for its Selfhood.

Woman, I have painted you in Black hues;
I have imperiled you with my dark resoundings.
I have foisted upon you the blame for my blues.
I have projected upon you the poison of mine own surroundings.

I now see you in your purity and blamelessness.
I now see you in your vulnerability and childishness.

Your beauty is undimmed in my eyes.
I can only scream soft surprise at my beastliness.
Forgive me; the quest was upon me thrust.
This was no conscious deed but only the relentlessness
Of a destiny cloaked in must.

The Bridge Back

The gods desired me to quest as I had long resisted the Call.
The gods brought me to the extreme limits of my tether
And brought me to the very precipice of my Fall.
I was plunged into the torrid and stormy weather
From which there is little recall.
I could only follow the path to the ends of the earth.
To the very extreme of hate and spite.
I could only fight and come to the very dying of the light.

The bridge has been passed and the turbulent river beneath assuaged.
I am now on my Island where I will sojourn and end,
Still and calm, like the solitude which is my only friend.

Femme Fatale


I was so deeply in love that it felt like grief.

I had been seduced by the very thing that had died within me.

She appropriated warmth by her very coldness.

Rank Friendship

Price to Pay for Power.
Those who hanker after rank must forfeit friends.
For only cronies go with ambition.
Should true friends arise, then the legion of
Fiends in disguise will poison them with their lies.

The non-ambitious are friendless likewise.
But they are also of cronies bereft.
And without sycophants, they are truly blest.
Only the middling sort experience real friendship.
Their price? - a lack of self-ownership.

Women Untamed

Like overgrown children

They evoke the jungle,

The forest,

The cave.

Their wild hair, their

Lithe legs, their

Impossible breasts.

Their sweet scent.

Piquant perspiration trapped by

Hair and more hair.

All beauty and terror begins with


Youth and Age

Youth is spent - a natural allowance is given.

Old age is earnt, endowed and conserved,

And against Nature is made provision.

The freedom of youth is wasted on the young,

While old age - a prison - is enforced

And imposed against the will of those

Who would rather run in the open

Fields of belated youth.

The Senses

As the mind-forged-manacles are lifted,

Sheer air affects our sense

A cacophany of the everyday erupts

The ordinary - extraordinary.

The Eye

Everything is emprisoned in my eye prism.

A woman's rump and thigh,

Her tattered fringe, and ravaged

Raven's eye.

I will not touch these things in case they

Evaporate like a mirage into the

Finality of a forgotten dream.

The Five Eves

Only in en-wom-bed woman are the

Lineaments of the races to be discerned.

A Roman nose, a Kelltic lip,

A Nordic chin, an Asiatic eye, and the

Majesty of hair.

In man, the racial instinct is a

Sublimation of the intense desire for

Woman as such.

Five Eves gave us the European subraces,

And what? - one Aryan Adam seeded them all.

From there sprang Helen and Cleopatra,

The great seductive seduceresses.

When man conquers he makes a dam;

But the dame is the river of the race.

Man makes dam-age and dam-nation.

But woman makes the racial nation.

It is no fix that Italy be shaped like

A female leather boot. The most lovely

Race on earth - the Italic - willfully

Brandishes the sadistic female foot.

But the Keltic-Frankish mix - O the mystery

And cruelty of these Gallic minxes:

Are they not the sophisiticat-dominatrix?

They can split the skull and travel beyond

Borders to stir revolution and convulsion.

Mediterranean women - diagonal swirl

Of chevroned cheekbones - pallid skin, hair so dark.

Bedllemite madness of this blackeyed girl

Incites me to anger and joyful violence,

War so civil, profound and trivial.

O Latino sprite, when you melded with

Keltic killers you spearheaded a type that would

Rule the whole of mankind and men-kind in tow.

Keltic rush and rhythm of femmes, from the

Seine to the Thames - gruesome apocalptic

Damsels and Boudicca she-braves, priestesses

And servants of the Druid snakes, I implore you

To join me on the Nordic waves, so we may

Explore the Afric shores and pulse in

Ways untold, unseen and unknown before.

O Slavic wench you have every quality

But it is imperfect in you alone.

You lack mystery, purity and strength.

But you are the backbone of the East, lest

Alien Hordes do increase and o'whelm our

European homeland and bastardise

What the Five Eves have wrought.

And so I call on the Nordic girl so pure

And on the Alpine so rugged and sure:

Preserve ye the lines so that Eros may conquer

Anew and renew the angelic throngs

That have uplifted Europa from of old.

Ye Five Eves - or should I say, ye Five Elms;

You are the world, in all its gold and dross.

You are the elements of a united

Europa - carrying Zeus on your backs and a cross.

Damn Her Eyes

Damn her eyes and her childlike grace

Her wraithlike presence and stone cool face.

Insinuating langour, her

Demobilising aroma

Curse her soft power which me doth

Devour, hour after hour after hour.

This Love is a scar that no skin graft can conceal.

It coils around my soul, a writhing snake and a

Sore scum scuffed weal,

It ulcerates and weeps a sugary-salt puss that

Both attracts and repels.

It throbs and pulsates,

It itches and it aches.

A reminder that never quells

A pain that is, was, and will

Eternally, remain.

Blacker than Black

Inside the Laby-rinth ...

None so black as her.

None so silent either.

More feline than


Astride lubricated web,

Juices sour,

She awaits her prey.

Invited in,

He makes his first

False step.

She toys with this


Venom seeping from





That is no smile,


It is the baring of

Sharp fangs.

Mesmerisers of slaves,

And the breath of



Devious to the first and last,

She shows not an inch of



- Imagination's filip -

A head so beautiful


- He thinks -

Be set upon a

Voluptuous corse.

His mind makes

Forms like a


She shatters the



She is true to

Nothing but her own

Iced avarice.

There is no way

Back out of this maze for



Her raiment a flowing train of verdant

Scent wafting scarves, a veritable

Vortex of sweet stench and laughs.

I cannot think straight in her divine

Deranging presence.

I can only play the clown and fool.

This is Nature's tool to render man

Incompetent and dependent upon

The hidden and implied essence of woman.

O the genius of this empress to

Conceal her body in layer upon layer

Of silks!

To penetrate this mystery

So many men have fought and died,

Peeling away surface after surface,

Russian dolls, longing to arrive at the

Truthful nakidity which eludes them,

The amorous grasp which annuls their quest.

Gallic woman, lay your body open to


In this love philosophy I need the

Nudity of Eternity to

Reveal your Muse.

I will have thee forever

Beyond Death.

Your face, your voice, O ye gods,

Alone will be enough!

You assaiult the

Senses and enrapt the expectant Mind.

Like all stars, your Black Hole is the Quint-

-Essence of your breath - Frankish wench, you're

The most beautiful woman the World has ever seen.

I cannot be blamed for this torch which thou

Hast lit, unbeknownst to you. And for my

Esteem - forgive me - I cannot give a sh-t.

Woman I will not pardon you, nor will

I crawl - for fate alone will punish us



I have braved the fiercest lashings of your harlot tongue.

Been dragged kicking and screaming through the hoops

And fences erected by you and your cronies.

Kicked when I was down and at the mercy of phonies.

But my bruised and wounded pride is nothing

Compared to my disappointment in you.

Is that all you got, prude?

Honesty is king in my world,

Not the superficial and duplicitous feud

That you call life.

The Anti-Seducer

She played twixt the interstices of voyeuristic vision,

And the levin glance of seductional sedition.

The seducer assimilates herself to the right victim, mirroring him; as she does so she insinuates implicit criticism.

Plays on his insecurities, probing into the void that lies at his very heart.

Her unspoken message?

: She alone can fill that void.

And she is everything that the owner of this void has longed for:

She is beautiful, exotic, wicked, perverse, intelligent, desirable and ... unattainable.

He can do nothing but fall in love as love is this very lack.

She encourages him for a while, then suddenly turns cold; then just as unexpectedly turns warm again. ad infinitum.

Despite the obviousness of this ploy the victim can now do nothing - he is hopelessly caught in the web. Longing for the next time she will be nice to him, he eats his own heart out in the meantime.

But will she get him to be her slave [the goal of every seduction]?

No - this victim will resist this final step - she will become frustrated and scream: "it's all about you!"

He thinks - and your point is?

He has been hurt by this more than he has by anything before in his life, but he cannot be a slave - he is "stubborn" as she complains.

He will always love her, but ultimately he is saved by his own self-love - a pyrrhic victory, nonetheless.

He masochistically relishes the memories he has of the glimpses he had of her indefinable beauty; the facial expressions - so practised -, the cat-like teeth bared, the puckered lip, the frowning eyes, the melodious voice, the delicious tittle-tattle of inappropriate secrets...

He walks away [if it were only so easy] from this wreackage a scarred survivor.

Alas, all other women will pall in comparison to her.

This poison was most welcome as I wanted nothing else: I obviously welcomed my own death at the hands of pleasure.

The true anti-seducer is also immune to seduction.

Few of us are that.

Seducers even seduce each other.

Tough as a cowboy, as cowed as a toughguy, he was oblivious to the black feminine arts of seduction.

Signs of the Great Seducer

Having few friends and fewer enemies - for enemies are the result of failed seductions.

She boasted that she couldn't be tamed: now she yearns for the quiet life.

Her enemies double as her sycophants.

All her friends secretly despise her.

She flits from clique to clique like a bee from flower to flower, but never stays too long.

She never admits to being wrong, only to being wronged.

The worse she feels the more beautiful she looks.

She finds betrayal delicious.