I am hooked on the nipple of creation,
the mound of its sensitivity; its touch of
soothing – the sustenance of shape – the
way I am safe when I am with her and
I am fine.
…as a transient I walked and spoke the
mumbo, and hung with crows discussing
what the devil knows, after having been
stabbed by a horn, and dripped milk for
40 exiled years…
This poem is about an innocence of desire,
the pang of wanting, and my moan is an
attempt to wake something buried without
forgiveness – even kings are undone by the
madness of their passions.