Down To Earth

1.

In the dark aftermath of returning to ground, 
our eyes gouged out and our mouths parched, 
nothing made sense but blindness and thirst.  
Stumbling, raw-tongued, we followed 
only the urgent call of need: 
the path of simple requisites/ 
felt out with the roots of our feet, 
the seeds of our bellies, 
the hunger of our sex.  
Smooth and soft to callous fingers, 
we were seduced into complacency, 
into loving our godless estate.  
To be filled, rested, sheltered: 
nothing more was required, 
nothing more requested.

In the darkness of fucking, we were drawn 
to the perilous edge of the sublime.  
We loved the danger of sex.  The entrapment.  
The rent flesh of remembering.  
The once upon a time of atonement.  
It made our defilement all the more ecstatic.

Fist flowers deep into hot heart of cunt/ 
tongueilingus sponge babyseeded 
ovarian spores/ distanced shores 
gyrate voodoo rhythmic/ quake blood 
earth gissoms snakespit eternity/ emptied out 
into safekeeping of night/ crimson as sin/ 
gainsaying horned god of creation.

In the darkness we burrowed down into the ground, 
down deep into the moist torpid soil/ 
through graveyard bones and dense humus, 
dead roots and forgotten coins/ 
through the flaccid vacuous yoni 
of the slain hunter goddess.  

Here, within the rotted womb, 
the corpses of gralloched deer and raped swallows/ 
a landscape of rusted slippers, creeping ivy, 
pools of menses, terminal moraine, dulled silver, 
broken mirrors.     

There was no attempt to rescue 
the bewildered children that littered the road.  
We couldn’t bear the load.  
Our sole purpose was to fill the aching hole.

Down, we burrowed: rooting out 
worms and small crustaceans/ crunching stones 
in greedy teeth/ feeding coarse bellies, 
with no thought of nutrition or digestion: 
only of filling holes.



2.

When the canvas of paradise has rotted 
and all pigment is bled grey 
there is nothing left but holes: 
holes that scream to be fed, 
to be filled, with anything/ 
candyfloss clouds, 
shredded glass, 
	distilled poison,
pornographic gloss, 
mutilated dreams, 
dresden fire...

impossible equations.  

There are factories spewing out 
cleverly packaged indiscrimination 
for insatiable consumption.  
In a world of holes, they are the new church: 
their mantras mesmerise and stupefy/ 
a universal barbiturate, casting its grey shadow 
in a dazzle of triptane technicolour... 
and we are all willingly seduced and deceived.

Holes know only themselves/ they cannot conceive 
of that which contains them.

Holes know only their pain, 
and the constant unfulfilling filling that dulls the pain.  
In drugs and sex and television, 
in eating and drinking 
and constant consumption/ we fill
without filling, 
the empty places in our hearts and heads: 
obeying the cruel demands 
of the fascist in our bellies; 
the steel clad Mosely, 
the brown-shirted bastard 
with the number of the beast 
tattooed inside its eyes.  

There is no empathy in need: 
need will gladly fuck anyone over for a quick fix.  

You and I, we learned 
the junked out inhumanity of needing/ 
the chemistry of desperation.  
We knew the seed that transformed 
baker into butcher, 
civilian into warlord, 
artist into antichrist: 
we knew it in our veins; 
we knew it in the choked arteries 
of our reason for being.  

Having fallen from the impossible dream of flight, 
we bought into the supermarket of night.  
Cruelty became us, with rarefied ease:  
it slipped into our skins, 
like a ky jellied cock into a dried up cunt.