Shorn, her arms twine
Inked in by time, a scribe for ever
Tracing lines and tattoos
And taboos that will
Surely die with her.
Carve runes on your bones,
If immortality you would own.
I live only by glances,
Like a thirsty man,
Gasping at a faltering well,
Afeared of drinking
Deep to the lees of her
Only the weak smile, laugh, joke and grin.
Might is stern, serious, deep and dour.
Of woman it makes a masque chagrined,
And raises infertility to a power,
Of which woman is the most evil
There is a forested darkness about you,
A shifting shroud, a sensuous cloud of
Crow eyes, perched on the plateaux of your cheek.
Your body reeks of natural evil. Of wicked Nature unbound.
And I inhale the feathered sod of your ground.
Golden girls, you worship the sun,
In its blonde, burnished glow,
And lapis lazuli eye.
But I need to know the swart
Regions of brown, and black night.
Those places underground,
Whole, and unfound by light.
Life would be a
Nothing so repels as the smell of death.
The spirit fled from the Nine Gates,
As Hel weaves her
Quickly rotting flesh.
Death makes a stranger of us all.
Reject the realm of the senses,
And plummet into the senselessness of death.
The void is oblivion, nothingness and rest.
Life is just an addiction to the senses.
Then taste death ...
When the prospect of death
Is sweeter than life,
Then taste death.
Opening a vein ...
As the life's blood flows,
Then is the future spent.
One's release diademed by a delirium
Of death throes.
At the Seven Gates of Death,
I sniffed death's breath.
I plumbed death's well,
Tasted death's poison,
Heard my own death's knell
And viewed death's horizon.
Like the Seven Gates of a
Which seep & leak
And taste her
Love lorn and lost,
Thrown down and tossed
On the decaying
Ground of Being.
The Hemlock of Love
Opportunities recede, Death drawing ever near,
Time to drink the Hemlock of Love
Who Guards the Guardians?
The atrophy of a trophy wife
All the Lies in the World derive from Woman.
Man deals in Truth - and Trouble and Strife.