castle-maine turners receive
threats knotted in glass
beasts of burden stalk mangers,
spilling frankincense in mir.
ink on ribbons brings marked
velvet papers with irregular rhythms,
strokes on strokes
keeping toll with high pigeon
dreams
making make, it’s time enough
to find there’s days of
absolution built into
calendar years
creep into smithies by iron-
fire light, forge tinkers
and test-tubes
leaving only baby wraps
and evenstar dreams.
Click.
Trawl. Click. Anal. Click. Search. Thumbnail porn galleries.Click.
I’m a librarian - Read that one. Seen that ass. Fuzzy sound. Bad picture. Click. Anal. Click.
Watching, some latino dude, a little too much muscle, glasses, wrist-strap. Some Brazillian chick. Always the most willing. An apartment. A discussion. An exchange.
Click. Bigger picture. Click. Sound down. I watch him pop the tip of his cock into her gape. I’m stroking my cock in time with this. But it’s her I’m watching. It’s her. I want to see her face. I want to see the pain she’s in. The discomfort. It’s the sound of fake moans that gets me harder. The sound of her pain under those false comforts. Ohh big boy. Ohhh yeah. Hurt me. Hurt me. Click. Spasm. Jizz. Spasm.
Click.
London, UK
New beginnings ticking dangerously in the dark.
Though apparently, these days they don’t - they vibrate.
Then it’s destroyed on a tarmac. All orange safety vests
And hollow-points.
We don’t imply ownership.
It’s not that we couldn’t,
it’s that when I see the blue flash of your eyelid -
too much make-up, too little guile -
I want to start a beat with you
There and now again.
But let’s not tell. Fall at your feet and say
rosaries till the necklace is worn through.
I’ll not pretend that a formality can cross us
but it’s something this day.
As we bounced round black-box hexagonals
and corralled chairs in dark flashing corridors
lit by laughter and cell-phone glow,
I thought of empty stops and tragic stations
where no one gives orders anymore.
Stalking through the Heath you can feel ancient Briton,
kept quivering and suppressed under concrete and hedgerows
like rabbits-feet used to ward of a Boudiccan scream or
the lashing of some dark druidic rite.
There’s not enough red-brick pieces in all the land to build a
just a fleeting deer’s tail arcing off into some half-remembered forest,
its Soul still grumbling mightily over continental castration.
There are still Pans here, despite the coat-of-arms on every sign,
dancing their way round deep corners on acorn carpets.
It’s Eldric: a sense of the Faded People,
of disinherited paganism and a near-world populated by God’s
to early dead and to easily forgotten to be real anymore.
Were they ever here? Did we invent steps in the dirt as we huddled to the hearth?
Sought more than wonder in a Stag’s nobility,
found horror in the blood of sacrificial superstition...
made our god as we would have them been not as there were once,
striding glens and moors as the heroes of a story no longer told.
