Posts Tagged ‘romance’


Mark my cryptic madness

Love my hopelessness

Talley up my magnificent frenzy

Break my infinite sadness


How can you look at me

With your rebellious technology

How will you romance me

With your primitive ancestry


How can you look like me

Why do you try to resemble

My insignificant shadows

And my primitive ancestry


Now do you see me

Pelican moroseness

Crow feather pain

Under mistletoe


Unrequited Love

Posted: December 8, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is a miserable trip
Even if it’s good for poetry
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is shit and maggots feeding on shit
No point in ripping my heart out of my chest for some woman who thinks I’m a joke
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is a leach on my soul, addling my hobo mind
No point making an idol of someone young, pretty and unobtainable
Living on wet dreams and half-awake ecstatic visions
To find someone who loves me as much as I love them
Unrequited love is smoking satanic factories of conformity and hopelessness
And searching for angels under piles of rotting corpses

To love someone who loves you is
Starlight and heavenly ecstacies
An echo of God’s quiet voice
A touch of divine Kerouac compassion
A race across the country in a stolen V8 Kingswood
A timeless kiss in sensual moonlight
Holding hands and not needing to speak
Apocalyptic fucking to vanquish solitude
A psychedelic sunflower sunset that blows up Centrelink
Blissful beatitude incarnate in woman’s form
Spitting in the festering face of death and cackling madly
For all true love is madness most succulent and holy


Posted: December 5, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

mustard miasma on tortured toast
dead-letter diagrams of esoteric schemes
over-turn the apple-cart all over Applecross

cocktail linen on the dining-room table
a door shuts out nothing
I like every female skin well

I dream of tickling their bones and sweetening their snatches
My guilt-stricken hand reaches out and strokes their nipples
With peanut-crunching glee

Annihilate every rational thought not focussed on sensual optimism
Exterminate hectic lonely nights of self-love and weeping
To be loved is a precious and erratic blessing
Hold on to it
Breathe in
Then let it go
Breathe out

I was glad when she smiled at me,
A dark pretty lady on Saturday with a smile that kills evil,
Who writes poems like Sylvia Plath- all twisted and complex,
And knows inscrutable secrets that I can’t begin to imagine.
Dance with me, my dear, through the twilight and the half-light,
Lurk with me in places where they do not know our names,
Let’s be melodramatic and devil-may-care all over the streets of our town.
I want to wake up to your delicate features and your sweet red mouth like honey and give you an avalanche of kisses,
I was glad when you smiled at me.

Published in the Bitchin’ Kitsch

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
Mental wire, capacitors and resistors filled with the electrical charge of life,
And under the mutant sea the malevolent crabs do their sacred dance.
Hype and hyperbole surround the true children of God,
For their fingers are the stories of their succulent lives,
And their arms are the rod of truth.

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
The tendrils of love are draped around your wonderful hourglass frame.
Your breasts are the true fruit of the fecundity of nature.
Your lips are sweetest honey-comb and send me reeling through alternative dimensions of being.
Your words feed me luscious manna from a purely benevolent heaven.

Buried love, soul meat under the Boab tree:
I sing the windswept leaves as they float about the trees,
I sing festering marrow seeping through bone,
I sing the mad ecstasy of being loved by an inscrutable lady,
I sing the particular pain of being alone.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
My love burns electrically elusive and hard to get to know.
The unrequited essence of consummate loneliness is closer than compassion.
A tangle of words between us and no-one can find an end to untie them all.
Why can’t things be simple, an unvarnished love without the painful peccadilloes of primping prima-donnas.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
Bent out of shape in a spiralling emotional pretzel,
Wanting to be together but failing again and again iteratively,
Stretching out forever in search of unity,
Missing the subtle signals of secret love in gesture and speech.

Difficult loves and complicated kisses:
Aching with baffling passion for an unknowable consummation,
It’s near to impossible when love consists entirely of hesitation.
So fleeting the flirting that hints at an ending,
I may just give up and settle for befriending.

Published in Creatrix