:The origin and nature of the Erotic:

WHERE WHEN AND WHY?
The Kiss. The Strip. The Fuck.
Beauty. Scent. Construct. Perversion.
Absence.
Abandonment. Destruction.
The lady velvet political hawk goldmine slot.

Ex nihil.
Two particles twirling, a compression
Of all that will ever be. Hit
And explode into a gaseous
Cloud of hot particles and forces.
Settle within minutes and start
Gathering together again into swirling
Clouds of dust, circling towards
A centre like a sink
Filled with sand without a plug
Slowly blocking the pipes
Until we return to exactly
As we were.

Allaha Akbar.

I live in a gallery
Sitting behind one way paintings
Watching people tentatively touch statues.
I dreamt myself as a god and became as such
While dozing on my stratospheric throne I dreamed
Myself a man and fell to earth.

Oh! Woe is most of you
Bumping something nothing you think
Through the glue of blue
Haze for days and days
Getting nowhere anyway.
It’s not worth the surface
So submerge the urgency of such tendencies
And
Never
Fully
Birth it.

Exchange character for concept.
An elderly lady without a home sits on a dirty curb on a busy street shouting at passers by:
“YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME”
They ignore her of course, any sensible person would.

Godhead. Give me life pain pleasure death hope tasks responsibilities and gifts.
Alight the bush for my wandering eyes and speak.
Protect me from pain knowledge exploration and freedom.
Give me land and beasts as extensions of my hand.
Take my rib and give me a servant. So that I may serve in comfortable satisfaction.


I’ve left the shore in search of the new
But my boat is fragile
Cracked ragged and infantile
I’m terrified of what I might find
The demons of novelty play on my mind
But I feel some of that old strength; secure.
I have a hidden defence I feel will insure
Protection. A shield made of thick
Glass, I keep in the bow. But it has a trick!
I’ve painted it black to protect my thoughts
From the unnerving prospect of fresh jugernaughts.

People talk about sleep
Far too much when awake.
They let lucidity slip by
For competitive bouts
Of who slept the least
And who went without.
“I am so tired; didn’t sleep till half three.”
“Oh I long for the days when I slept at half three!
For the last month and a half I’ve
Been sleeping at six. With birds
At my window and light
Oozing over the horizon.
You, my friend, are lucky,
To be drifting off at only half three.”

I call for a toast!
A toast of failure!
A most appropriate boast
Of absolute ineptitude.
Of hot feet, whirring cameras, books laid out like solitaire, muttering amateur academics, whirring cameras, dizzying screens, a spinning view, a whirring camera, hot feet, thick socks, thick boots, worn leather, an aching head and whirring cameras.

No, this will never impress.
But how about this?
Waking up is painful.
I enjoy mornings so much that sometimes they last until evening.
I would rather walk in the gutter than feel the pop of snail shells beneath my boots.
Thick boots. Thick socks. Whirring cameras.

Heteroglaciac polyphonia
A parading carnival of dialogues.
Humans exist only to receive and catalogue light.
I only ever seem to shave at night.
The demiurge is among us today. A time travelling project creating the universe at its end, sending particles underground in Switzerland into the past to watch it begin. Until we return to exactly as we are.
Allaha Akbar.

Glory be to you, word.
Glory be to you, grace.
Glory be to you, spirit.
We thank you, light:
In whom darkness does not dwell.
No man shall mingle on the Sabbath.
In anarchy, every person is a monarch of their own body.
Where is the ‘beauty’ particle? Is it between my eyes, the light and the atoms?

Look. Look. LOOK.
Why don’t you all just
Pour me a drink
Leave the gorgeous ambient lights on
And fuck off.