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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.