Art is Struggle

Mariko Goto, strange goddess of the Nippon stage.
Holy whirling dervish of unquenchable furore.
From violent blue serafuku clad sexual rage,
To gentle faun like grace in a heartbeat.
A lucid dream of azure thrashing dissonant passion.

My queen! My desperate thrashing queen!
Artful creator, withering destructive force,
Raven haired demon, delicate wilting flower.
Our damaged souls somehow entwined for this one sacred moment.
Mariko! Mariko! You’re mine in this holy moment.

Hopeful Spring

Out of darkness hope germinates,
Bright and lustrous like spring flowers in the sun.
As a ravenous winter fades,
A warm dewy meadow bathes us in sunlight.

Hope, the fading of a cold dolorous blue.
Hope, abounding with new born vitality.
Lush, moist, and verdant, the meadows of my hopeful spring.
May the tender shoots of love emerge from these fertile soils.

Hope Series 1

Clutching at strands of hope,
A desperate forlorn lust.
Pinned down by experience,
Snivelling like a wounded animal.
A joyless austere castration.

But hope flourishes like bountiful spring flowers.
A delicate vision of tender flesh.
Hair like silk running through my fingers,
Warm flesh like a caress,
A sensual dream of freedom.

Hope Series 2

My hope is a strange creature, fragile and frightened,
Startled and scattered at the slightest sound.
Nowhere to be found in an ocean of humanity,
But still present here and there, now and then,
Ever caged in mortal terror.

My hope, alive and vivid,
In sweet dreams, drifting off to sleep beneath a heavy rain.
My hope a pluviophilic blessing.
My hope sometimes takes flight in warm reveries of brighter tomorrows;
Else buried in multi-layered anxiety.

Hope, how may I clasp you close like a partner in lust?

Wellington

Wellington is;
Fierce autumnal wind, Tousled hair.
Apocalyptic gales, Chilled bones.

Oh azure sky, oh winter murk.
Oh whirling tempest, oh bitter breeze.
This maelstrom is sacred!

This place is holy.
This howling beast, this bitter brew.
Ayahusca for the soul.
My home ever unsettled.

Palace of Dreams

Lust is a palace of dreams.
Humility is a tragedy here,
Let the sensual animal within roam free.
The wildest passions gleefully unfurled.

She who drew long breath weeps warm rivulets,
Writhing like a wounded animal, holy and supine.
I’ll do anything to hear the sacred hymn of your beautiful agony.
Only chastity is unholy in the palace of dreams.