Feed of pints, think I’ll lower myself to begging for a blowjob
In the laneway outside the Turk’s Head , up from Isolde
Calling your blower, growling then outing
Sex with me more bone storm than Milhouse Van Houten
Whole day outing, you keep mount like a black belt
Keeping count with a black belt’s welt, felt moisteningly
Garden of hoists raise petardingly as Bard wrote
From cornetted roof, rough and sex-redolent lazaret
Seeming to grow therefrom, meaning of Mary Arden’s surname.
Throat gripped, fingers like a compass spanned, legs splayed
Casting a vast masonic shadow
Commanding expanses of unclaimed land on a map, mostly blank
Taking soundings of your body
Sinking fathoms to the hart flanks of you, heaving almost
At breast caged breath permitting heart’s noisome portcullis grind open
Moments like smoke escaping open casement
Ungraspable yet in succession impassable.
My exploring hand tantamount to Adam’s, pouncing toward
Turn over a picture of my father
No thicks, only pricksticking in my parlour of sexual ardour
Former place of practice for dark arts
Hexvessels and made-hatreds I made cannot depart
Scorchmarks from forgotten atomic wars, they are part
Of me and part of this.
I bail my fist and work it in, sinful spelunker
Dunk how I mind the eggs
Too good looking to be moving like a hooker
Reciting Man Booker winners into your man bucket, clamless
Calmless, we like eternally seething voids beneath the world
Turning eternal I am turning evil
Medieval in torture lust, carapace bust of carven agonies
Scars like a corset lattice, runes and ogham dooms
You are a ruined planet, not meal enough to sate cruel Saturn
Who consumes children and produces instance
By Time’s malicious and linear sealant.
Part armour for scar-loving knights, house of excruciating delights
Semenic fountain, couch of strange arousal
Spinning the carousel
Gaudy porcelain horses adorned with opulent fortification
Inglorious equine facsimile, smiling rider scented rank with cider loweringhighering
As a cribbed infant stolen by the sea, bobbing on a criminal tide
Smiling to spite cursed fates, hate everything that ever happened me
I don’t tell you that though, France’s kiss on the crest of a clit.
Alchemisland 
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