- IN THRALL TO LILITH
- She parades into my dreams: her
impudent pudenda, an open, intricately carved flower.
- Bees and stinging things live
within, waiting for the soft whisper of invitation. She is
- and vanilla, vaseline
- She is a cascade of vocabulary:
vibrant and vivid. The supreme vivisector of vacuous
- Her dictionary is a thrashing of
ten-fold limbs; and all meaning is encoded in the fluttering of
- her labial wings. I am a prisoner to
her intelligence, her volition, her erudition.
- There are pale blue men
- working her Siberian pits,
- and all for the want of a kiss.
- Lying out on her gypsy brass bed,
she smokes a cheroot: staining the walls with disdainful
- agitation - her cheeks, red as the
cheeks of Modiglianiís whores.
- The blasphemies of pigment beguile:
viscous rivers drain the soul of every homely warmth.
- Her likeness cannot be caught: it
eludes with simplistic ease. Teasing, she baffles me with
- the pink virtuosity of her tongue.
- In vain, I reach out to grasp her
grassy banks: yearning for the safety of a foreign shore;
- the heat of inevitability, the dark
depths of her cavities.
- It was she who devoured my strong
ancestors: she who left Christ crying and gasping for
- breath. What hope then for me, with
only my clotted paintbrushes and second hand
- adjectives to protect me?
- The future, I see, is a glassy cold
pit: yielding nothing more than small handfuls of flawed