Monday, 3 May 2010

More mystic marvels of poesy

As a flower to the bee
or Existence to His 'Be!"
The mirror opens its sex
Only to its ex

Thy frigidity so fires my phallus
Ashes art thy gash's palace
Gnosis, God! cry me a river
Fucked 'tis to fuck a mirror


Fearing a critic, curt, might curb my inspiration

(Force-fed shite, he’d counsel constipation)

What, grave, I write as grave dirt must lie

On my samadhi trite & barzakh I.

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