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or, is it?
of nightmares gone hope
the unsullied beauty
desire is wild
is a nomad
further and ahead
drown the past, deeper
if you must
but never forget
how to trace your footsteps back
to the knowledge of pain;
would rather un-remember
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EurusLike a sunbeam, freshly brewed
within the throes of gentle dawn
bustling promise, unuttered
light from shadow, unfettered
like warbling spring, spurting dauntless
flood me, drench me, finger-feed me
with all I would believe in, athirst
release me then, avidly sated
perpetual herald, faith-full.
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A pregnant moment,
though every day must die
this day is bleeding,
a slow, relentless ending
leaving little room for hope.
ChantryListen, child, listen
to the love that the bird sings
mellifluous, monotonous, it chants
the changeless song of its being
that love, that ancient syncopation,
that emptiness of the overflowing heart.
within the void.
a tiny intelligence
extinguished in a moment.
Cranes at the apex,
machines that seem driven
by undreaming minds.
The city a vast colony
directed by mysteries.
SenselessI've lost the power of speech,
become the dumbest of beasts.
I've been robbed of my senses,
stripped of all my defences.
Your exercise of bewitching touch
leaves me incapable even of remembering my name.
Your witchcraft has undone so much,
still you refuse to shoulder the blame.
There's so much for me to learn anew,
can I hope to learn it all from you?
Pollock, a frontiersman, a desperado.
all that he was, all that he had struggled against becoming,
destroyed in a moment of self-mutilation.
His future ended on an empty road.
He crashed through the closed gates of his anguish
into the void of oblivion.
he left the road permanently, written off,
along with the remains of the vehicle he drove and the corpse
of his front seat passenger.
No painter had explored the great empty spaces
that his Shamanic dancing uncovered.
First, the canvas, unstretched, a great, indifferent shape on his studio floor.
His vision, keen suddenly, the unsparing gaze of a predator on the wing.
Then the gestures, the paint-charged brush
flicked callously, the blot of colour. He began to prowl the boundaries of the work,
dripping and splattering characters of a code he could only guess at.
Pollock, deeply entranced, (I can never remember afterwards, he said)
not simply leaving his mark, a tag, to trace where his spirit had been,
explored the route his
The woman to my right is silent.
We are at cruising altitude.
and my eyes burn with weeping.
I want a cigarette.
The gods are indifferent tonight.
They disdain to know whether seat belts
are fastened or if seatbacks are locked
in full upright and locked position.
Backward time travel
lulls me with its lies.
Yes, you can get there in a day.
If you ignore the clock.
But fly into the sun?
You must reverse the logic.
You could have read it in my eyes.
Storyville, Bordello Sketches1
Girls, pale skinned and nubile,
who by candle light might pass,
women who lend a joint a little class,
a suggestion of sass in the swing of the ass,
these were the gems the madams looked out for,
girls who could turn sad guys into would-be Casanovas.
Still the punters knew that the dollar was always king,
their dollars could buy them any pretty thing
in the room. They also knew that black girls
had learned what they had to do for a necklace of pearls
and stockings of silk. So the guys played make believe.
In the first light of dawn nobody was deceived.
The Storyville madams
hired piano players, even bands
to help the girls along. The punters liked
to feel how the girls swayed against them
as music's rhythms took them
voyaging around the floor.
Close like that,
the girl can soften up her chosen guy,
make sure that one of them at least
can get her money's worth.
She'll let the fumes of spirit tame him,
if she's good at reading the score.
Then what happens? There's a war.
Speaking In TonguesIt's true that the poet must ever struggle
with the dead weight of words, must shape
the beginnings of meaning from all the contingencies,
the accidents that blur the smooth edges of spirit's form.
It's true that every beginning will falter
long before the moment is discovered
clothed in simple perfection. Though I must fail,
I still can glory in a wealth of harmonics
that a greater soul might one day resolve.
Red Letter Day - Prologue
So here I am, writing.
I’m writing, I’m writing – just as you told me to.
I’m writing, I’m writing, I’m writing.
Have you ever noticed that when the sun goes down, this flat changes? It does. The walls are white during the day and lingering brown at night. During the day, I’m with you and the light from outside paints the walls that heavenly color. But when that sun goes down, the demons wake and I’m alone again, even though you’re just a room away.
Somehow it seems less threatening tonight, and I think it’s because you’ve given me an assignment to try and fight off the darkness. You gave me a stack of papers and a pen and told me to write everything that comes to mind.
It’s a strange feeling to have complete freedom. These empty pages are mine to do whatever I please – I could even wipe my ass with them – but they’re also terribly intimidating. The blank page has always been a nemesis of man. It&
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More