seems to stalk me,
Laughter bubbles ripple from her mouth
And even as it’s swaddled in my arms
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.
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
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
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