Fuckault’s pony


he cut off his balls

whilst fuelled on a hallucinogenic vision

and gave them to a stray dog to eat

so to have unencumbered the future


I didn’t want to confront a face resembling mine filled with hate.’


he took to avoiding mirrors

keeping to the cloistered shadows

of his oppressive study

where he studied Fuckault in hope of believing


How can madness be cultural when it is unadulterated pain?’


his words stuck in the swelling of his throat

he should have cut his cock off too

and served it up on a platter

not as ritual but as honest mutilation


How the educated are more stupid than the ignorant!’


somewhere on a beach near you

a professor is building sand castles in the dunes

before waiting for the tide to wash away his structure

so he can argue it was all in the mind


later he will purge himself in the S&M parlours


strapped over a horse

and taking it from behind

hit me! hit me! hit me!


convinced his pain

to be a source of enlightenment

hit me! hit me! hit me!


nothing can harm him

because he is the vision

hit me! hit me! hit me!


reddened buttocks distract attention from his blushing countenance


history has a tale worth the telling

but whose word muscle threads its silky oratory

and whose slithers on its snake belly?

wars have been fought about this

great men have bloated into greater fools

as they sought to justify their nonsense

with his tissue of lies


he unpicks the convoluted space he inhabits

twisting his tongue back into a knot

knot on knot into a crocheted webbing

pulling loose under the tension of its creativity


he takes his penknife from his pocket

and sticking out his offending tongue

cuts and watches his lies stretched out before him

whip back and slap him in his face


sitting back in the shadow

he considers with smug satisfaction

his intellectual suicide

the misery desire


into the black yawning gob of the tunnel

the dark mouthed kiss of the deep swallow

it is at this point I was shocked by the sunrise

catching me bolting along on the dawn stallion

Dracula retreating to his tomb


I read De Boudoir as a form of redemption

all the time thinking of a woman’s warm insides

feminism I could understand if I closed my ears

their minds functioned with different cogs and springs

I preferred to think of her locked into coition

jigging a comic dance, the absurd locomotion

of pelvises thrashing together

so I returned to Schopinhower


women do not understand justice

the reason for their subjugation

he explained


misery is more reliable than women

it’s a source of happiness

when nursed


for what is she, but desire?

she baits you with her body

then leaves


I have never lied about my desires.’ she said

she was desire, she knew it and used it

like a weapon


one hundred men queued outside her window

drapes, slightly parted, allowing out a little light

as she busied herself with social obligations

fussing her cats and connecting with friends

she moved coyly with decorum

with just enough whore walk to show them she might


her defence, intellectual violence

the false premise, her evidence

proving it was all the fault of men

as she bent over her library chair

demanding her new lover ride her hard


I laughed, then cried


my addled brain fumbled like clumsy hands

to perceive what only light to the eye can satisfy

and roughly get to grips with the situation

but like Actionman, my will outgunned my ways

and not even a conjuror’s game of mirrors

could raise my state in this condition

not even her, wondering naked about my brain