Beauty

seems to stalk me,

taunt me,

Laughter bubbles ripple from her mouth

And even as it’s swaddled in my arms

It escapes,

Like incense smoke floating off the alter

 

‘To have or not to have?’

That has always been my question.

Not if I should, but if I can,

And only after understanding can I then turn to be.

 

Promiscuous ephemera

So fertile as to breed from their own birth,

I flounder spluttering in the overflow

yet - I sense -  there will never come the point

where I am finally drowning.

Rather sublimated through the stygian whirlpool we will go

All dead souls,

After all having but borne little deaths,

And now coming into ourselves

We shall be one again

- Is that the secret in the chuckle of the bubbles in her laugh?

As I catch her shining eye descrying something

 

I choose to invoke mystic evolution,

Because my loins cannot bear that they are the thinking part of me -

The soul nothing but a crude pent-up frustration

Dispersed in every Sunday wank

Like so many undead children

- But are they not the same?

The thinking part of me

The soul

The heart

Which beats within my chest into my engorged grasp

The body truth of procreation

Older than the human mind

The arrow straightness of my lust

Thrusting straight through hell

Where all the souls will fuck until the howl becomes a rupture

And once again we will have come to heaven

 

Old, old

The spirit winds blow,

Moved by the restless evil eye upon the waters

Where a billion waves will one day come to realise

they are reflecting back to it,

The looking glass

Where all is queerly changed but still the same