There is little to be had from drink, A few bottles and then there is Just drunkenness: a sleep without sleep, And mumbling, thirsty ranting; From opium or cannabis, An escape into Xanadu for a while, Into colours and sounds and happinesses Before wandering into regret And then the blank of unconsciousness; Sex is the salt of human skin, Beautiful in its caresses and cosseting, Or empowering, warrior-like In the abuse of a woman's body; But the best of all is blood, The greatest power over a man, The glistening, oozing drug That satiates on mere sight — no needles, no pipes —, The throbbing, twitching body, The spurting gash, the chilled steel, And that final, final eros, It pleases, it pleases.
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.