In Thrall To Lilith



She parades into my dreams: her impudent pudenda, an open,

intricately carved flower.Bees and stinging things live within,

waiting for the soft whisper of invitation.She is...

vinegar and vanilla, vaseline and vagina.


She is a cascade of vocabulary: vibrant and vivid:

the supreme vivisector of vacuous idolatry.


Her dictionary is a thrashing of ten-fold limbs; and all meaning

is encoded in the fluttering of her labial wings.I am a prisoner

to her intelligence, her volition, her erudition.


There are pale blue men

working her Siberian pits,


and all for the want of a kiss.


Lying out on her gypsy brass bed, she smokes a cheroot:

staining the walls with disdainful agitation - her cheeks,

red as those of Modiglianiís whores.

The blasphemies of pigment beguile: viscous rivers drain the soul

of every homely warmth.Her likeness cannot be caught: it eludes

with simplistic ease.Teasing, she baffles me with the pink virtuosity

of her tongue.


In vain, I reach out to grasp her grassy banks: yearning

for the safety of a foreign shore; the heat of inevitability,

the dark depths of her cavities.


It was she who devoured my strong ancestors: she who left Christ

crying and gasping for breath.What hope then for me,

with only my clotted paintbrushes and second hand adjectives

to protect me?


The future, I see, is a glassy cold pit: yielding nothing more

than small handfuls of flawed diamonds.







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