As Long as She’s a Bitch!

September 26, 2016


I’m not over finicky, am easy to please –
Capable of falling for a wide range of tease.
Only one condition I count, one little hitch:
A girl’s got to be a strife sowing bitch!

Don’t care if a girl’s a star at debutant balls;
Or if she works at greasy eateries in malls –
Don’t care if she’s skilled at social one upsmanship;
Or prefers isolation, being outcast hip:
All social caste – from the gutter to filthy rich –
Is fine, as long as she’s a scheming bitch!

Don’t care if a girl’s plundered a lingerie shop;
Or if she’s a rosy-cheek fresh from the sock hop –
Don’t care if she’s into Catholic schoolgirl plaid;
Or a biker tough who likes to look dirty, bad:
All fashion’s acceptable, any style of stitch,
As long as she’s a tantrum tossing bitch!

Don’t care if a girl’s a nymphomaniac slut;
Or if she needs to be courted, plead with to rut –
Don’t care if she’s bedded two dozen baseball teams;
Or if no man’s ever explored inside her seams:
I’ll take maid or whore, any experience niche,
As long as she’s a fight fomenting bitch!

Don’t care if a girl’s into rubber bondage kink;
Or if she’s fond of coupling on a skating rink –
Don’t care if she must be wearing ‘luminum foil;
Or if I’ve got to dress as Tiller of the Soil:
I’ll embrace any fetish, all means to bewitch,
As long as she’s an unrepentant bitch!

Don’t care if a girl’s mouth ceaselessly runs riot;
Or if she barely breathes a word, is always quiet –
Don’t care if she often speaks of Christianity;
Or if her vocabulary’s half profanity:
Any subject matter, all forms of vocal pitch,
As long as she’s a discontented bitch!

Call it magnetism or addiction –
Call it an emotional affliction;
Or the utter death of rational thought,
Willful disregard of all I’ve been taught:
I simply don’t combust with peaceful girls –
Have little use for the Sunny-As-Pearls!
Yes, give me a wildcat or fitch:
There’s nothing like bedding a bitch!

What’s the explanation? I’m not masochistic;
It’s simply that, for me, friction’s alchemistic –
A means of engaging inner unrest,
Resolving self-conflict, emerging blest:
Nice girls are unable to dredge my deeps,
Exorcize the things that give me the creeps;
But a malevolent bitch – my oh my! –
Engages those things, routs them, bids them fly!
I’m in heaven – consider myself rich –
Only when being renewed by a bitch!

Nice girls are a being struck with blindness,
Submission to slow killing with kindness.
That’s right, nice girls are the gravedigger’s ditch!
So I’ll retain clarity with a bitch –
I’ll remain alive and thrive with a bitch!
Any female, as long as she’s a bitch!

Robert Scott Leyse

Goblin Revel

September 26, 2016


IN gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin,
I watch them come; by two, by three, by four,
Advancing slow, with loutings they begin
Their woven measure, widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor, –
And jangled dulcimers, and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.

They pause, and hushed to whispers, steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon
On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs
Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they
Have clambered back into the dusky moon
That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.

Siegfried Sassoon

The Demon-Ship

September 26, 2016


‘Twas off the Wash – the sun went down – the sea look’d black and grim,
For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim;
Titanic shades! enormous gloom! – as if the solid night
Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light!
It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye
With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky!

Down went my-helm – close reef’d – the tack held freely in my hand –
With ballast snug – I put about, and scudded for the land.
Loud hiss’d the sea beneath her lee – my little boat flew fast,
But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast.
Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail!
What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail!

What darksome caverns yawn’d before! what jagged steeps behind!
Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind.
Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,
But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place;
As black as night – they turned to white, and cast against the cloud
A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor’s shroud: –
Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!
Behold yon fatal billow rise – ten billows heap’d in one!

With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast,
As if the scooping sea contain’d one only wave at last!
Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave;
It seem’d as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave!
Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face –
I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine!
Another pulse – and down it rush’d – an avalanche of brine!
Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and home;
The waters clos’d – and when I shriek’d, I shriek’d below the foam!
Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed –
For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.

* * * * *

“Where am I? in the breathing world, or in the world of death?”
With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath;
My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound –
And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seem’d around?
A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft;
But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft?
A face, that mock’d the human face, before me watch’d alone;
But were those eyes the eyes of man that look’d against my own?

Oh! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight
As met my gaze, when first I look’d, on that accursed night!
I’ve seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes
Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams –
Hyenas – cats – blood-loving bats – and apes with hateful stare, –
Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls – the lion, and she-bear –
Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spite –
Detested features, hardly dimm’d and banish’d by the light!
Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs –
All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms –
Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast, –
But nothing like that GRIMLY ONE who stood beside the mast!

His cheek was black – his brow was black – his eyes and hair as dark;
His hand was black, and where it touch’d, it left a sable mark;
His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I look’d beneath,
His breast was black – all, all, was black, except his grinning teeth.
His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves!
Oh, horror! e’en the ship was black that plough’d the inky waves!

“Alas!” I cried, “for love of truth and blessed mercy’s sake,
Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake?”
“What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?
It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gain’d my soul!
Oh, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that beguil’d
My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, –
My mother dear – my native fields, I never more shall see:
I’m sailing in the Devil’s Ship, upon the Devil’s Sea!”

Loud laugh’d that SABLE MARINER, and loudly in return
His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stern –
A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce –
As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once:
A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoy’d the merry fit,
With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit.
They crow’d their fill, and then the Chief made answer for the whole; –
“Our skins,” said he, “are black, ye see, because we carry coal;
You’ll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields –
For this here ship has pick’d you up – the Mary Ann of Shields!”

Thomas Hood


It seems when we hear a skylark singing as if sound were running forward into the future, running so fast and utterly without consideration, straight on into futurity. And when we hear a nightingale, we hear the pause and the rich, piercing rhythm of recollection, the perfect past. The lark may sound sad, but with the lovely lapsing sadness that is almost a swoon of hope. The nightingale’s triumph is a pæan, but a death-pæan.

So it is with poetry. Poetry is, as a rule, either the voice of the far future, exquisite and ethereal, or it is the voice of the past, rich, magnificent. When the Greeks heard the Iliad and the Odyssey, they heard their own past calling in their hearts, as men far inland sometimes hear the sea and fall weak with powerful, wonderful regret, nostalgia; or else their own future rippled its time-beats through their blood, as they followed the painful, glamorous progress of the Ithacan. This was Homer to the Greeks: their Past, splendid with battles won and death achieved, and their Future, the magic wandering of Ulysses through the unknown.

With us it is the same. Our birds sing on the horizons. They sing out of the blue, beyond us, or out of the quenched night. They sing at dawn and sunset. Only the poor, shrill, tame canaries whistle while we talk. The wild birds begin before we are awake, or as we drop into dimness, out of waking. Our poets sit by the gateways, some by the east, some by the west. As we arrive and as we go out our hearts surge with response. But whilst we are in the midst of life, we do not hear them.

The poetry of the beginning and the poetry of the end must have that exquisite finality, perfection which belongs to all that is far off. It is in the realm of all that is perfect. It is of the nature of all that is complete and consummate. The completeness, this consummateness, the finality and the perfection are conveyed in exquisite form: the perfect symmetry, the rhythm which returns upon itself like a dance where the hands link and loosen and link for the supreme moment of the end. Perfected bygone moments, perfected moments in the glimmering futurity, these are the treasured gem-like lyrics of Shelley and Keats.

D H Lawrence
The Poetry of the Present
Published as a preface to the edition of Lawrence’s New Poems (1920)


September 26, 2016


‘Forests have secrets,’ he said gently. ‘It’s practically what they’re for. To hide things. To separate one world from another.’

Catherynne M. Valente

a secret belief…

September 26, 2016


Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.

Elana Dykewomon
Notes for a Magazine, Sinister Wisdom #36 (Winter 1988/89)

turn my Lolita inside out…

September 26, 2016


My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys.

Vladimir Nabokov