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

inside me.

 

                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

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