As the tiger is to space,
So sex is to time,
Apparition of savage grace,
The prelude to crime,
A loss of all face,
A rending tear in the fabric
Stitched together by some joking maverick
Demented demiurge blind
The only thing on your ravaged mind
Is where to find
The pot to piss and shit in
Which is, all things considered, rather fitting.
We’re near the limits of the I,
But I is another,
A discontinuity of cries,
All passion is other,
Into the emptiness we sigh,
Signs descend into parody,
Eggs eyes and testicles a chain of analogy.
I meet God, a lazy whore
Lolling on a bed,
Don’t you want some more?
As she opened her legs she said:
I needed her tender and raw
So I could penetrate the mystery,
Plumb the void of the coruscating divinity.
Somebody should have told you That there was never any future In lying supine, Idly dreaming Of your lost glory days The vanished grandeur of your imperial passage When you subdued the very waves And subjugated the nations of the world With boots pressing downturned faces Further into the mud until they choked, Striking accords and treaties Then perfidiously reneging Carrying cargo requiring whips and chains A-looting and a-raping Destroying and acquiring Wholesale pillaging But you know, all for their own good A civilizing mission of course Truth be told it was all a bit of a burden But somebody had to do it and who better than us? Quite quite but can you see the future In dreaming of a past that was actually a nightmare And how it poisons your present Making your current decline Take on the bouquet of a corpse Your empire resulted in beaucoup bad karma And a backlash that reverberates and echoes Not only did you oppress and degrade the colonized But we dehumanized ourselves in the process Turns out that your manifest destiny Was to be exceptional only in dissembled aggression Yet you still wrap yourself in the flag Butchers apron, a filthy bloody rag While cultivating a loathsome air Of detached superior nonchalance, Fundamentally supercilious Undermining any attempts at seriousness With a deadly withering irony A scornful reproach of all decency Yet we are still surprised When we encounter all the hate Displayed by neighbours and others Further a-field, all over in fact Can’t they see what we did for them All those ungrateful so and so’s Can you believe that they think of us as some Stricken beast too stupid to know that its dead? Well we will show them one day If only the enemy of the people Those traitors and bleeding hearts Would stop talking us down If only we could rouse and wake up Then we might dream Of starting over again, though this time We would make sure that the sun Never ever never sets
I touch your skin with a hope of palpating your heart To cause an excitation within your mind that travels Down and around towards the tenderest target zones Leading to an exultation that abolishes all barriers Just for a moment a confusion reigns as to where I stop And when do you start to begin once more again
Ever constricting circles nearing the vanishing still point The ever eluding aim the shimmering illusionary goal Of my hesitant groping then more assured stroking As you strain to reach those regions unknown to me Still I long for and hasten your complete surrender Emptied and spent experience blank devasted serenity
I touch your skin unsure whether this repetition is a curse Or some form of blessing preceding a final absolution
Stop right there I have heard enough I don’t care for the menu Time to move on wasted enough already
And or but Into the fog Maybe the smoke If it is the conflagration after all Either or neither Nether ever never Wood coal pour some oil Cant see the forest for the trees
I saw you for the first time again You seemed different somehow Though I had to admit That you looked so good I just had to touch myself Forgetting that your kisses Always left their mark Bruising and wounding Ah well what’s sex without pain Love always requires some seasoning
Will you ever…. You make everything sound so dirty Though you will probably take that As some form of obscure compliment After all you wrote a pornographic reprise Of Aquinas’s Summa But I’ve come here to bury you Not to praise Are you listening Do you catch…
Come now cough ante pony up No thing like a free Take a look at the fork We are all exposed In some form of fashion What a season Hell’s got nothing Here is the variety Nauseating horrific exhilarating No time for the honorific Down here while I describe With disgust my various Beautiful disguises
These days what’s the most we can realistically hope for but some form of ideal dystopia.
Perhaps an isolated bunker in a distant land deep beneath the surface fitted with all the conveniences that seem so essential, naturally.
We could sleep safe and soundly there and dream plastic dreams of our synthetic future as we transform into angelic androids, with our skins like vinyl that hisses and crackles when we touch, superficially smooth yet as we press harder we discover contours and grooves that activate sensations far forgotten within the soul.
We long for a fine and private place but there is none to speak of so we sneak into what passes for a sacred grove, dedicated to some degenerate local deity with one glass eye and undoubtedly an unappeasable taste for tidy hookers and neat gin.
In this dimly lit ersatz arbour made of rusting metal and fake bamboo hemmed in by tarnished mirrors we talk:
of organisms that ceaselessly duplicate;
of the next eagerly anticipated catastrophe;
of death and destruction as the ultimate spectator sport;
of the serenity to be found in surrendering to the spooked spiralling logic of paranoia;
of nightclubbing and nightcrawling;
of nocturnal emissions;
of the vicious inanity of Incubi and Succubi;
of the Latter Days of the Fourth Decadency;
of a corrosive inertia;
of ennui and entrophy;
of containment and contagion;
of chance encounters and happy accidents that lead to inevitable happy endings;
of the cellar door in The Very Heaven Heavenly Hotel;
of protean cult leaders;
of clairvoyant photographers;
of a vanishing star of stage and screen;
of wandering infra dig soldiers lost in the twilighting border zone;
of standing on the threshold of a room;
of skipping a vital slowed down sleazy beat;
of nonsensical impulses and randomly compelling whims;
of waylaid emotion and contaminated intimacy;
of perverse attractions;
of dream homes and heartache;
of love and sleep.