I had a poem to say

I had a poem to say

just before swallowing my own tongue

it slithered down my throat

and nested in the left lung

now a snake sleeps there

holding my heart in its mouth

unaware of time

unspoken

undreamt of

down Alice's hole

 down Alice’s hole the rhythm

and the poem ascended entwined

like a pair of cold snakes in heat

slithering around her thighs

and the meaning of the words thus became

the meaning of the music as well

as Alice kept singing - herself a chorus -

“I shan’t... I shan’t... I shan’t... I shall"

so Alice gave birth to a rabbit

while her body tenfolded size

and the rabbit gave birth to Alice

both heralds of my mind’s demise

?

it’s always raining in this dark alley of me

lightdrops heavenwards starseeds

the poem is a strange deranged idea

like a riddle or a fire or a storm

an ancient ? never to be answered

I am not here to decipher it

nor am I the holder of any keys

for I runincircles writeincircles flyincircles

mouth wideopen to the nightsky

chewing the moon whole in

gentlemadlittle bites of lust

steeple my way in

I want to steeple my way into you

parting your thighs as if the red sea

lay my head down

my nose sunken into your groin

the sweet miasma of primeval littoral sands

overpopulated by crabshells and

skeletons of fish and mermaids

from unknown seacountries of yore

and the hot tide coming from deep inside you

wetting my thumbs and you know the best

I'll lick them I promise I'll lick them

twice and once more

but first I want to steeple my way into you

and seek exile in your wombstone

and forget about all the rest

Bukowski

 I like

crazy expensive womenand cheap bad wine

that's what I'd write

if I were Bukowski

but I'm not

Bukowski

I´m not wrapped in

a torn white piece of paper

stained by fresh ink and dry blood

and sour red wine

sleeping half naked and drunk

under a dark blue starry sky

I'm not the poet of freedom

I'm not the god of LA

I'm not the whore

he saw in every corner

and in every poem

I'm not Bukowski

and yet here I am

talking about you

Charles ol' chap and your

crazy expensive women

and my cheap bad wine

Amongst fallen leaves

Amongst fallen leaves of living stone

where the ancient gods have once cried -

here I sit on the floor as if it were a throne,

gazing at her pale memory by my side.

I dream a sea of joy where the rain falls

and the sound of her voice a gentle tide -

words imagined are boats sailing across old walls,

and every ceasing laughter the moment she died.

And as the raindrops become tears of my own

my eyes gape like the gates of hell - open wide -

amongst fallen leaves of dying stone

where the ancient gods have once sighed.

Warriston Cemetery

the midwintry breeze

chanting above the Water of Leith

slowly dancing with the windswept trees

at the Warriston Cemetery

brings me back the memories

of unlived past lives

as I rove and drive my chariot of death

through a lane of gloomy flames

from this tombstone bridge I look

down to the black river

and open my bleak bare chest

allowing my gothic soul to escape

and to plunge deep into the water:

dim dreams swimming away

with the spirits of the dead

to their land of decay