I dreamed.
I woke in tenderness.
I dreamed of tenderness
as a ripe plum squirting
down my beard – tenderness
that turned to tide
which flowed through both of us
and in which we floated
through our cuddle-space
wherein our snug adhesion
the unseen ballet of our tongues
the breath shared by each other's lungs
were part of an epiphanic lace
of delicate and gorgeous things
that we in sacred, shared
humility presented to each other
as sweet kings – and the smiling
exuberantly-bearded sun
was his
life-giving face.

ONLY HALF A DOZEN TIMES THE GLAMOUR

Beyond the marzipan
of mere sex, mere poetry
and in the mystic intestine of
non-penetration – beyond the utilitarian transport
of mere drugs – my mere and dreary consciousness
briefly gloried in the hairy
vegetable glamour of his hugs.

HAIKU SEQUENCE

June evening – the sweat
delicious beneath the hairs
of his peach-buttocks.

Just looking at him
made my nipples turn into
tiny volcanoes.

Our tongues like two
flat-fish mating in the cave
of two mouths.

My nose between his legs.
Eyes open, I'm in the
Garden of Eden.

Just when I'm about
to faint with passion he
revived me with god-milk.

The Miracle of Candi Sukuh

Amphisbæna:
making love is not an act
– but an animal.

Summer evening: hugs,
champagne – and the weird
of the viscous runes
of his seed in my beard,

as we lay throught the night
snugly together
like a creed,
like two happy spoons.

(insert tongue according to taste)

This poem is a kiss – each line a lip...

SEASON'S GREETINGS

2001
Autumn last year
was wonderful. You came here
when leaves were gold.
The nights were cold
and cuddly
when you came here.
I toasted you with toasty-tasting bubbly.

And now it's Spring
life's quite a different thing.
It's still cold
and I feel old, bereft
and grimly sorrowing.
I feel that what I feel
is hardly real...

Sensual
love is a self-inflicted theft

2002
And there came yet another Spring.
My life at sixty turned into a strangely-gorgeous thing.
The nights were cold
but I did not feel old, bereft
or grimly sorrowing – though always I feel that what I feel
is hardly real

and, floating in the bubbles and the cuddles,
I almost forgot the feelings of self-inflicted theft.
Love is not jurisdiction, robbery or madness
when it's expressed by abstinence and absence.

THE INDESCRIBABLE

The intimacy:
so rich and thick
that we cut it like cake
and ate it
walking on water.

We thanked each other and rejoiced at
O! the marvellous therapy of it.

I was atom and ocean
flowing through your hairy tenderness,
the seascape of your bearded beauty
far from the shallowness of men.

"Love"
says little of spirit to spirit
and being turned inside-out,
nor of the umbilical intensity
of re-uniting in deep complicity
with deep prehistory.

That little raped, paraded word
does not describe baptismal filaments of moonlight
winding through our beards,
nor the twin tides surging
from brains to groins to brains,
nor of immersion
in the roiling, glorious, frightening
inner sea of mutuality.

TEXT-MESSAGE TO HIS HAIRINESS

When we snuggle-hug and kiss and heal
and seem to merge
what we are and share and feel
are wonderfully beyond my words.

BALL-NUZZLING FOR BEGINNERS

I love a man
to shout
as he shoots
(and not to kill).

AFTER LUNCH

of three large radishes
and a pint of soured,
unpasteurised milk,
I wandered not-unpurposefully
in the shady woods
beside the little river Lère,
and there
a guy with a lovely stubbly hair
licked my cock as subtly as an angel
and uttered over my bare
feet like a prophet.

HORTUS DELICIARUM

Unemployability is Religious Vocation

I, a failed priest of egregiousness
cursing miserable wisdom
met the Buddha of Hairiness
as we loafed together in saintliness
in the Garden of Togetherness.

Some claim to have heard the Spirit
even to have seen the Spirit – but I have
smelt the Spirit in the Garden of Togetherness.
Spirit is smell of connection,
genderless but not sexless
odour of earth, beyond tired, trite
worlds of words.

I said to the Buddha of Hairiness:
The only people who know wisdom
are those who have never imagined
that wisdom existed – and those who have not
succumbed to consciousness
but conquered it.

He showed me twins floating
silently, helplessly
in a womb beyond world,
and one was the Buddha of Hairiness
and the other was the melancholy priest.
This was the answer:

Flow beyond language, the barrage of consciousness,
flow is in smell and (naturally) in noses.
Flow is a nose as well as a smell,
and flow is breath, and stone, and death,
and orgasm needs neither friction nor fountain – and enlightenment is a cell.

POEM OF LOST LOVE

Around him
time, space and the forest blurred.
Below the dark pelt of his belly
and between the spread
hairiness of his thighs
on the damp, mushroomy earth
there was humid quivering.
I was a plant
and I was shivering.

That mushroom made me bloom.
As I flew into the eyes that seemed like nests of love,
and through a snowstorm, and through a creamy room,
and through my flesh my whole awareness
was in bloom and shivering
like a solitary bedewed foxglove.

SENRYU

Touching the nipples
of the man in the mirror:
wistful ecstasy.

FEELING TERRIBLE

after mere ejaculation:
the rapid re-uptake of a
minimal release of serotonin.

WAR AGAINST CIRCUMCISION

The human generative-penetrative
organ has more variations
than the human face.
Some totalitarian societies and cultures
rigorously amputate all penile personality
by circumcision

while others are frightened by their natural odour
and smell bad, or not at all.

It is probably an accident that the USA and Israel
and Muslim nations
are in a state of continual war
(often against sections of
their own populations)...

MY COCK

is full of ecstasy,
and ecstasy is cocks.
Between my thighs a fixed address
at Number One, The Rocks.

THE DEVIL

has three dicks,
none of them circumcised
or nethermost:

one for the Father,
one for the Son, and
one for the hard-
to-get-hold-of Holy Ghost.

LOVING SAINT ONOUPHRIUS
who lived 40 years in the desert alone and clad only in his own hair

dedicated to Henry Sapgir

Kiss the feet
(feel the fur)
Kiss the beard above the feet
(feel the fur)
Part the beard and kiss his knees
(feel the bone)
Part the beard and kiss his balls
(feel the fur)
Feel the lust
(feel the fur)
Part the beard and kiss his belly
(feel the fur)
Rise up and part the beard
and kiss his nipples
(taste the flesh)
Lick his armpits
(savour the sweat)
Rise further, kiss his neck
(feel the fur)
Feel the lust
(feel the fur)
Kiss his lips
(taste the sadness)
and, avoiding the banalities
of penetration and ejaculation,
weep for all the misery
(kiss the wet fur)
Weep for all the cruelty
and wickedness of Man
(die in the fur)

Click for a picture of Saint Onuphrius clad only in his own hair.

(There was also a SAINT JOHN THE HAIRY OF ROSTOV,
one of the "Fools for God" in 16th century Russia,
including the Blessèd Vassily of Moscow and others
who denied themselves clothes even in Winter...)

One man's Hell
is another man's Heaven
Your Hell might be hairy devils
ejaculating constantly
and hotly on your face.
Mine would be eternal mathematics
or forever failing to fix plumbing,
or an everlasting cross-country race.

SONNET TO THE ARSEHOLE
by Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud

Dark and wrinkling like a purpled pink
it humbly pants in moss still damp with love
that trickled down the slope from where his buttocks clove
- white buttocks leading to the puckered eyelet's brink.

Filaments have wept like tears of milk
in the cruel south wind which has driven them back
through clots of red marl, to be lost along the track
where the slope called them with surfaces of silk.

My dream has often kissed this enchanted orifice:
my soul, jealous of carnal intercourse,
has made this its tear-bottle and its nest of sobs.

It is the fig of teasing ecstasy for the flute that calls,
for the tube from which the heavenly praline falls:
feminine Canaan that dew anoints and orbs.

improved from the verson in
Tide and Undertow: a book of translations
by Anthony Weir, 1975

_________

The poem above appeared in the enthusiastically-bisexual
Paul Verlaine's collection Hombres,
published posthmumously in 1904.
It was a parody on a collection of poems by Albert Mérat, entitled l'Idole,
each of which sang the praises of a woman's anatomy- her forehead, her neck, her hands, etc.
Here are some diamantes from Verlaine's collection:

"Let us admire that splendid flesh
as if it had intelligence – trembling,
and shy, but valorously fresh..."

Even when it’s not erect
Your cock delights me, dangling there,
pale gold beneath your pubic hair
commanding my utmost respect…

"Come, acorn, come, my heart of oak.
Stand firm and poke
Your roll of pale pink silk
Into my hand until it squirts
Its fecund spurts
Of opalescent milk..."

"My lovers come not from the yuppie classes
but from hick neighborhoods, small towns
and from the land:
young guys with aristocratic asses,
hard muscles – and manners none too grand..."

(translations by Anthony Weir, photographed above in 1983)

click here

for more poems by Rimbaud

FOR ROBERT GARCIA, A PLAYFUL AND AROMATIC BONOBO

The Perineum
of the World smells
dusky, musky, husky...
With my nose, itself now subtly scented
by breath and perhaps by soul of truffle,
and perhaps a hint of turmeric,
of cardamom and caramel,
I linger in your balls.

October 2013

click to see

a fine prehistoric phallus

click here to visit:
SATAN in the GROIN
exhibitionist carvings on mediæval churches