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Showing posts from March, 2012


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.