Slugging For Sweet Jesus
Slugging for sweet Jesus,
the benign smile melting us to stupefaction -
a crucifix draped round your neck,
diabolically pressing its lascivious fingers
into my needy flesh.
This thirsty skin, crying
for the rough thrust of sublimation.
I want, I need... transubstantiation,
justification, a fix of revelation,
the smell of your male flesh enveloping me.
You can play Rimbaud to my degenerating Verlaine:
pierce me with your vision, fill me
with your terrible work.
A shrug of ether, a pinch of sulphate -
my love, it is late! Let our raiment fall from heaven,
let the clouds in my head enfold us.
We can fly to the hot South and share our wings.
Trousers round my ankles -
the metal of you inside me, churning my viscera
till I am so soft I fall.
And in my sleep, away from the sugared hell
of this anonymous Chelsea Hotel,
I dream of Armageddon and the Cabaret Voltaire -
the seven angels of the apocalypse
concocting a cacophony on harps and horns,
the devil on the slide trombone,
a toothless old voodoo man on the drums,
dancers moving like grease through a sewer,
smiling insanely, with petro-chemical rainbows
on their faces, Dali, dressed as a magician,
ejaculating faeces from a top hat
and throwing melting clocks into the numberless void,
Marcel Duchamp walking forever naked,
up a stairway backwards...
and even in my drugged out dreams,
there is the rhythm and the heat, the constant beat
of your never satisfied meat
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