I went down there dying
Ram of the eighty third day,
Hound of the ravaging sea
Who licked wine from the pleat of your breasts
Teasing flesh from your sole September dress.
The cracked voice of the ages yet cried
Of dogs who’ll claim their day.
Then let mine last forever.
Let the fibre of all the Gods’ bowels rot
And the thin lips of the Buddha bleed,
Let the gypsy’s curse and the angry bee sting
Be crushed with the faery lore
Of the four eyed fools that are read
In parched dawns by disciples
Caked in academic dust.
The boiling blood of this soldier,
A torrent of scarlet rage, froths forth a fiery
Desire in my throbbing veins,
Driving my snake tongued lust to burn
With quasi dragon flame your crusted dry tomorrows.
Illustration Nick Victor