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Saturday, 20 August 2011

Let Me Denude Creation


The illusion of control - control is futile.

While artists delineate limits.

A watcher rides the wild.

Surrounded by pictures, I walk right into them.

Road kill.

The peaceful head

Unflinchingly rests

To the side of a torn body,

Bloodied breast.

The car speeds on

Oblivious as the murderway

Claims another badge,

To stud its tarmac skin.

Arterial roads which span,


The globe,

A tennis ball tossed

In the Aether.

Infected by life,

That disease so proud

Of what little it can


A pin-prick

At the cold eternity

Of nullity.

The multiverse is there

Within a globule of her sweat

And the musical spheres

Are echoed in her breast.

And what fierce wand,

To lash them?

Spiteful time punishes the ripe peach of her face.

A face that helmed Poseidon's awe,



No nobler profile has

Prowed the visored waves.

The sea is not heaven.

Paradise pit,

A dustbowl

For grimy angels,

Unwashed and stinking.

Bound she feet


Toes in the


Of your hand


sweat hot.

Let me denude Creation
So that her rains might fall
And drench us all
In their golden liquidity.

Clouds and rain,

Streaming hair like a comet tail.

Servant girl's shoe.

Busking in rags with rings on her charcoaled toes.

A face yet golden, emerald eyes.

God physique.


She rides

On a steaming black horse,

Shod in silver shoes.

She skin damp

She hair



Amongst the fallen petals

Of wine-pressed flowers.

Her tight clad cheeks were in my mind.

Her feet were helpless,


Flaccid digits.

Language is constraint. there is no purely 'automatic' writing ... all writing ... hesitates ...

This why writing is erotic.

Artists have a penchant for the forbidden.

Age outrages the form human

Disgraces the race

And is good for only those

Skeletal remains

That danse macabre

In etchings and flames

Enemies of water, blood,

Enemies of colour,

Of brains and sinews

And phlegm.

The stark nose,

pleated mouth,

Chin and open throat,

Caramel lips, tongue, lining,


Poets want to lose control.

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