Kabbalah
Kabbalists have a strong sense of the reality of evil and the dark horror that is about everything living.
Gershom Scholem

To him who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone which no one knows except him who receives it.
Rev. 2.17

Then the dragon was angry with the woman, and went off to make war on the rest of her offspring, on those who keep the commandments of God and bear testimony to Jesus. And he stood on the sand of the sea.
Rev. 12.17

*

She
She of the blue light,
She of sepulchres, tombs & caresses,
She of white skin, she of night skin.
The brilliance of Decay, the iron fist of Dismay, sweet death in foreplay...
Bedlinen my shroud & blackness veils my dizzy eyes yet I awaken to a new world of golden midnight danger, bejewelled skeletol mist of microscopic ruby & emerald rainshowers - perpetual unseen Terror infers a presence bloody & real.
Lingering kisses, the warm wetness of skin, bronzed darkness, intimacy of night...
She smiled, yet it was Death that kissed me.
Golden streams dance around her sweet physical prison, Night’s razor sharpness slashes my wet back.
She of the blue light,
She of sepulcres, tombs & caresses,
She of white skin, she of night skin.
Death kneels before me, she has dark eyes & soft hair, she has a vice-like mouth and eats me. I find no rest. I am made crimson & empty.

*

Far overhead the night’s pervading force
explodes the darkness into downward streams
of violent green. Stars mad with colour throb,
expand and burst through swirls of jewelled rain.
Great fires span thousand million miles of beach
with surging, wondrous purple flames that sigh;
with soft bronze sand beneath my back she lay
on me, her skin as gold as sunburst sky,
I soaked in her translucent turquoise eyes
and found soft expiation in her thighs.
I’ll swim through multicoloured midnight sea
- A psychedelic sunrise waits for me.

*

She of bouncing crazy cat feet
She of porcelain lunar face & astral skin
She of mane hair sharpness & attic despair
She of T.S. Eliot voice & kick back charm
She of smoothness, legs, shoulder-blades, alabaster
She of gold, she of glass
She of jazz night violence voyeurism
She of front seat feet on dashboard assertion
She of fragile stature, she of lovelessness.

*

20 Years
jazznight movement smoking sweat saxed bop
pass my hat - I’m gone
backstreet wail of trumpeted blues the open window
coffee night the girl’s fingers of blue smoke night
misty morning the bus & newspapers
working for the night
sticks of gage & crates of beer
jive-sisters at parties so diff’rent
conscious of fakes but movement, movement,
years, cafes & friends in different cities
the attic flat she blonde
folk-song smoke of steel-strung six string berets &
beards, ’the windy beach of crazy sorrow’
journeys of rainbowed night
Lucy & purple
short dresses rings flowers beads & Kerouac dead
Colour night of leathered angels
splinters of sunshine & screeming guitar freedom
countryside flow turquoise free Goddess she dancing & colour
& sugar-cube colour amplified beaches & fires in dunes
mystical journeys & Mexican eagles in sunlight
Rizla & rafia naked brown legs of revolution
Amsterdam Provos & Lennon in bed
death-jelly in jungles;
ten thousand death medals for each thousand dead men...
Jimi, Janis, then Jim...
embarrassment, anger
and
death
- the dream over,
no m
o
v
e
m
e
n
t

*

The Beach
The orange sky melted and heaven fell on her. There were fires in dunes. She still had the turquoise flower in her fist. It was late summer. She couldn’t remember the word that had been used and, as the sea danced and Jesus bled, she knew she wouldn’t go back.

*

Was it said?
Alive or dead
Black and red
A crimson head
A side that bled
Was it said?
Alive or dead