Root Flower Red







This flower is fire red,

a core of vermilion,

petals petulantly open. 


Within the folds of stamens,

filaments and fuzz

is a centre of cunt;

a descent into primal void,

into primitive violent being. 


The taste of it

in the mouth

is sour, musty, intoxicating:

the taste of blood

pulsating to the ululating tide

of the moon.






What I mean to say though,

writing in the dust with bones, is...

my dreams are peopled with holes:

tunnels, entrances, openings;

a crazy paving of windows and doors.


I am constantly a victim of movement,

squeezing through constrictions,

falling or flying through dead, silent air;

and in my dreams, always

I awake to the ubiquitous wan, grey light

of sleepless morning




scratching armpits, face, thighs,

rubbing never-quite-awake eyes:

the petals of yesterday like dust

to the rusted clock's restless ride


And what is on that other side?

An unattainable, unimaginable light!






Through this blood flower,

through the angry vibrant red of it,

the root of our collective being,

the root of our animal soul,

we struggle towards the light. 


It is no accident

that this spectrum starts in red. 


We are all blood:

cunt, cock,

meat, flesh;









To dive into red

is to be swallowed by cunt


to relive

the clamped agonies of our birth


in anticipation of death

and the ultimate constriction

from which there is no release...


death is the place

we have truly learned to fear 


suspecting there is

no hallucinated rainbow,

no fantastic flight...


only unspeakable blackness:

a void,


the ultimate negation of light.










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