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My dear,

sweet and tender




poems of the month

orpheus in soho

a seriously sexy man


measuring my face

old clothes

modern iranian poems

my hero

face at the bottom of the world

perhaps (maybe)

the diogenes sequence

where to store furs

i am and am not:
      fragments of rumi

destiny and destination

the zen of no-enlightenment

the iraqi monologues

already backwards

a light in ruins

separate amputations

the sexy jihad

awaiting the barbarians

the smell of possibilities

ultimate leaves

rejoice in the dog

post-millennium maggot

the book of nothing

confession from belgrade

dispatches from the war against the world

albanian poems

french poems in honour of jean genet

the hells going on

the joy of suicide

book disease

foreground trouble

the transcendental hotel

cinema of the blind

lament of the earth mother

uranian poems

haikai by okami

haikai on the edge

black hole of your heart

jung's motel

the second coming (rebus)

gloss on rilke's ninth duino elegy

wine and roses

jewels and shit:
poems by rimbaud

villon's dialogue with his heart

vasko popa: a shepherd of wolves ?

the rubáiyát of
omar khayyám

genrikh sapgir:
an ironic mystic

the love of pierre de ronsard


the rich man and the leper


art, truth and bafflement





the maxims of michel de montaigne

revolutionary maxims

nice men and
suicide of an alien

anti-fairy tales

the most terrible event in history




the three bears

three albanian tales

a little creation story



one not one

an occitanian baby-hatch

ancient violence
in the amazon

home, sweet home no longer

the ivory palace

helen's tower

extortion through e-bay

ancient violence
in the amazon

helen's tower

schopenhauer for muthafuckas

never a pygmy

against money

did franco die ?

'original sin' followed by
crippled consciousness

a gay man's guide to soft-willy sex

the holosensual alternative

tiger wine

the death of poetry

the absinthe drinker

with mrs dalloway in ukraine

love  and  hell

running on emptiness

a holocaust near you


londons of the mind &
dealing death to the caspian


a muezzin from the tower of darkness

kegan and kagan

a holy dog and a
dog-headed saint

an albanian ikon

being or television

satan in the groin

womb of half-fogged mirrors

tourism and terrorism

the dog from sinope


this sorry scheme of things

the bektashi dervishes

combatting normality

fools for nothingness:
atheists & saints

death of a bestseller

vacuum of desire: a homo-erotic correspondence

a note on beards

translation and the oulipo

the visit






Nuadú, God of War

field guide to megalithic ireland

megalith of the month

houses for the dead

ireland and the phallic continuum

irish cross-pillars

irish sweathouses

the sheela-na-gig conundrum

french megaliths


'western values'



This is terrible for you.

It seems terrible that I have done this to you.

But my ability to cope is rapidly draining away :

galloping senility, I guess.


As you know I am losing things repeatedly :

wallets, passport, bus-pass, money.

I am mislaying things.

I am aware of little lapses of attention.

I have 'gone quiet'.

I am weeping inside.

I have a permanent knot of sadness in my stomach

and a feeling of despair not just at the micro-level

(of one being among billions of similar damaged/mis-evolved beings)

but at the macro-level, too. The world is getting ever more awful.

Other species are disappearing almost before our eyes.

Around half of 'the wildlife' that existed in 1945

has been eradicated by our insane, ever-'progressing' species

and our effects...

and so on, and so forth...


I don't think I can face another winter,

another roadworthiness test on a car now over 15 years old

and which could break down anytime, leaving me stranded.

My extreme sense of autonomy ('free will') has left me isolated in so many ways,

and physically here in this rural 'retreat' with no neighbours

and no friends anymore.

An unmodernised rented house with dodgy electrics

that my landlord has refused to maintain in any way

for 25 years - a house of moths, silverfish, beautiful spiders,

mice and the occasional rat, with an inefficient coal fire

and a very old slate roof that will not last much longer.


I can't even look after the garden.

I am repeating my mother's end, but much earlier

and more rapidly. She denied and/or hid her senility,

but I, ever calling the spade a spade, must recognise it.

And I must do something about it before it's too late.


As for France, the prospect of selling the house

and disposing of all the stuff

simply pulls tighter the knot in my stomach.

I can't face it.

I have retreated into the cave of my oncoming incapacity,

and there is no exit.

I can't even face the journey back

by bus and plane and train...

and a month there on my own without you,

not sharing food and wine and music, colloquy and silences.


So I have to end my life before it gets worse

for me - and indeed for you. The longer I agonise miserably

and procrastinate the more difficult it will become.

And the more difficult it will be for me to do the simple thing

with Temazepam and the big plastic bag over my head.


The deepest thing that can be said
may be:
What is inexpressible
is inexpressible.


I feel that my life

has been mere procrastinated suicide.


The logistics are a bit difficult from the point of view

of finding the body. If I do it in my house, it could be days

before you realise that something has gone wrong

and hitch-hike the 16 or so miles to be presented with a stinking corpse.


So I have to do it either before someone is due to visit

(which is almost never)

or I do it in your house in the middle of the night.


It is a terrible decision, but - since things can only get worse -

it's a sensible one.

I certainly couldn't drive my car off a cliff

(even if there were any cliff roads near here)

and the outcome of that would not be guaranteed.


I hope you have a copy of my Will.

I can't find one, and I think I gave it to you.


All outcomes are awful !

There is no Good Time to do this,

and doing it now will prevent or ruin

your Meditation Week in England.

I feel terrible for 'failing you' through incapacity.

There is no way you could look after me,

become my 'carer'. The strain would be too much.


And I would eventually die in any case,

maybe in a psychiatric or geriatric ward

or in one of those horrible 'Care Homes'

where all autonomy

all personality

is effaced.


I am having great difficulty plucking up the courage.

To kill oneself 'in cold blood' after long and cool reflection

requires more courage than I ever thought I,

a born coward,

had within me.




Just filling up space
with my shadow...

...and my portrait of you
(as you know) over 20 years ago
when your beard was much shorter
and more controlled.



(written in 2004)


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