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"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,

"Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever did you spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."

"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

~ Mary Witt

Is that alright with you?

If I gave you my Heart, dripping with dark Love

If I flushed out my Shame, awkward with Crime

If I begged for your Grace, breaking with Bad

If I loaded my Glock, pulsing with Poison

If I trashed your place, lie with the Waste

Is that alright with you?

Fleur Cinematic

Fleetingly, frolicking in the light of the final flatfoots

Fleur-de-lys flipping ‘neath your fixated frown

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, fumes the giant hungry for Englishmen

Your flushed ferrels flummoxed but Free.



Bebop, you who challenged my soul, changed my world

Far from this levitious crowd and tormented bold

Where words are pearls and your life is gold.

Like Primo Levi’s survival in Auschwitz

Who flipped this path? I’m a melancholic witch

Razing this Earth, recognizing, you, my glitch.


Quick. Rolling.

When we go rolling along the grass, the pollen in our eyes, I grab your hand and you become the Sima Martel of my being. It is a depression on the surface of Earth, a sink-hole of not-quite-there uncomfortable romance, where you leave me neck-deep in sweetness and struggling light. As my fingers slip through the wet cracks of your muddied thoughts, I decide that I will give up this town in the only way I know how.

The words, falling from your crooked mouth, become hazed alphabets, dancing beneath my eyes, and all I see is you. The pores on your skin, gasping for air, begging for closure the way my soul begs the same of you. What waste do I live with, that I live to hope that you may deign to truly love me. For when you did once, I chose to let the Sun shine on me and chase the Blackened away.

And when I begin to drown, submerged in the dark tow of your uncertain under-currents, there is your nuqu, your fading twilight shadow; go, drowning fast, the momentum building like a crow in an airplane, ripples beyond ripples of this world.

Quick. Rolling. You leave presents at my door: a talking dog, cat and a bunny.

I steal a kiss when you turn to me, because I don’t give a damn anymore. I steal a kiss because it is the first and only that I will, because the bowling pins of the Eternal have come for me.

Quick. Rolling. Out of all that is Nameless.

I steal kisses.


Once upon a time, when there was Nothingness in the world but the moon, two stars, a floating stream of water, and a wide expanse of blue-black sky glimmering with lights from the netherworld, I was born. And I was special because I was born in Nothingness, with only the moon, two stars and a floating stream of water to attribute my existence to. But nobody truly knows me.

But let us pretend that somebody does.  We can pretend that the moon fell in love with me when he first saw me, so he gave me some of his light to make the highlights in my hair glimmer like bio-luminescent algae. The two stars of Nothingness bestowed upon me a body of glowing energy, a lithe, silken form as soft as spun gold, as fluid as a changing body of water, with beautiful hands and feet shot through with fiery red lines. And the floating stream of water granted me the power of song and speech, although in Nothingness, there was then no such thing as song and speech.

So I remain. Silent of song and speech. A billion things of reflection in my spun headiness, rolling on the grass of Nothingness, my arms wide open waiting to receive what I knew not to receive.  A lift-off and I have no Name. I am tied to pain and there is a hollowness in the recesses of what should be a Heart. Burn me down, I think. My image reflected is all that I will ever see. And on the billionth night of my existence, I will see his eyes. And know that I love him, because there is an ache almost too glorious to bear, although I have no way to fathom what he is. Only those eyes that will peer at me from the hooded lids of the blue-black sky, and his beams ever wrapped around me, showing but never saying, how much he loved me. And how he loved me from the depth of his blackened Nothingness, from the darkness of his Soul, a kiss as soft as cotton-wool and I fall into rapture. I, of Nothingness.

And when my memory is hardened, and I croak Song and Speech, and I am stripped of all things that make me, he remains.


The Day I Lived Again

The colours of the day. That’s how it started.

A mellow, chocolatey hue, a billion flavours of sweet and salty, merging through a multitude of shades, intonation, hierarchy and captured feelings. Muted yellows, cloudy blues, raging reds- they danced in the visions of my eyes, that dark deep nothingness that died a thousand tears ago. The  only thing I hear is the sound of my even breathing, the sound of my scent, the sound of my fear and loathing, and Black is perched on my shoulder, whispering the Darkness into my tingly ears.

I suck on the flavours of the sky, emerging only to the surface when He reached out, tentatively at first and asked if I wanted to spend the day with Him. And the answer caught in my throat, a little furry ball that yearned to scream “Yes!” But instead, came out as an icy blue “Whatever.”

Once upon a dark moon, I had risen to the occasion and swept all rationality asunder, throwing myself over that cliff of uncertainty, only to have myself fallen at the very bottom of the abyss, emptied of life, devoid of meaning and lost my soul. But this day, if only to look into His tender eyes, hear the sweet honey of His voice and relive the once-beautiful memories of our dream… I know that I shall live, and die again.

In A Hopeless Place

Tonight I found myself standing at crossroads. A hopeless and lonely place. This was the place where I fell in love. And now I have to choose the road less travelled.

Where shall this Path lead me?

There is fear in my heart. A sense of loss and forlorn longing.

tonight I stand at crossroads.

Thoughts of a Woman

A woman is not attributed an intrinsic identity because she is a caricature of a castrated man; castrated politically, socially and sexually. It denies and projects unacceptable feelings of envy  for the phallic qualities of a Gentile. Freud said so, but I think he’s strange. The Oedipus Complex, the Electra Complex….he has seen it all. But I’m not sure of it myself.

“Moses will not let go of my imagination.”

“Moses torments me like an unlaid ghost.”

The body knows much without knowing. We are innocent. The imagination sees much that it does not need to understand. Like the blue breath of the serene sky. Or the hot moment of the thrusting cock. Or the solidest of fleshy realities, the over-abundant power of birth, of fucking, of azure breezes. Hakim Bey is a brilliant man.

The Phallic amulet is not the penis of the animal god, but of Priapus, a god of vegetation. It is the penis of fruit and flower- in some sense, a female penis. It would have been unthinkable. What is unthinkable?

The Mystic Nativity is painted by a man. His name….? It begins with a “G”. He paints dark things.

A woman in this world has bells on her fingers and rings on her toes, and a tattoo of a dragon on her right breast, a huge right breast unfortunately unmatched by a small left breast.

I must investigate the subject of my life now. How exceedingly ghostly I seek to follow something beyond the shadowy regions of our world.

Eternal Mystery #352

I was jealous but didn’t want to say so

I’ve not been anything but scorching hot

Soared, with passions all aflame

But when I saw Her,

To tepid. Then to cool again.

I was jealous

Watching her lean towards him

I felt a tiny, tingling “ping”

Like a string stretched taut to my thighs

Then plucked

A tiny spasm-

Nothing like an orgasm-

Or like being fucked.

A sudden intake of breath

Shivering, quicering

Disgust and hurt-delivering

Ache-making, back-breaking

Exploding and earthquaking

North to South Pole shaking

Back-arching, no faking-

A deep breath.

It was like this as I recall

Registering on Richter

Rippling off the Equator

And when his face lit up, a smile

The thrill that he, I knew before

Has come into my life once more

Same eyes of smoky black (or grey or brown)

The ready smile (or steady frown)

Same sense of fun and bonhomie

That air of curiosity

The savoir-faire (of wide renown)

The heady kiss (the bedding down)

It is not true, as I have told

Our love blows hot, and then blows cold

For as she looks into his eyes

And see what I myself have loved

I know she wants him. She will try.

Perhaps he favours me no more

Though his claims of eternal love can grow

For, if he did, and I believe

He would have told her who I was

Despite liking things in moderation

Could he not forgo her adoration?

I don’t ever want to dance

Only to jump from this prison of circumstance

I want to smoke until I’m out

Until my lungs feel like I’m a drough.

How is it you can give yourself

Ever so much pain

Ever knowing he may never love the same?

The tissues are always out of reach

I’m crying tears I should not breach

I was jealous

But didn’t want to say so

Perhaps it’s time I let him go.

“…And I’ll Get Back To You…”

I don’t know why I thought he loved me

Just, perhaps, the way I felt for him

And certainly he never said as much, mtaintaining that

He didn’t show his feelings, or affection

Though he held me tight enough and

Kissing me, you couldn’t tell.

He could be tender: when I hid my face

Against his chest and blurted out

He stroked my hair, regretful

Now it seems to me he had no reply

(While I would kick myself and think,

You fool, you fool).

But there was once, on parting, when

Responding to my usual words, he whispered:

“I adore you too.” I cried

The whole way home, my dream come true;

At last. The odd thing was

That that was when he started getting late

Whenever we met for dates

His phone calls hardly came through and

He would say

I’m sorry, but I’ve been tied up.

In desperation, one 3 a.m. I left a message

With his friend. That if he cared for me

To ring by 5 a.m.

He hasn’t phoned me


It’s 5 a.m.

Perhaps I should have said which day.