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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.

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