In my garden
 Seasons pass
With anxiety and alarm.
 A column of black beetles
  Like taxicabs in Oxford Street.
In the warm south
Policemen walk among the crowds
Like cheetahs in a herd of wildebeest.

Are riddled with imperfection,
  Unconsummated love,
  Elements of destiny.
Depressions come and go,
  Mostly sexual in origin.
  The biological basis of things.
  The U.S.A. is a giant tapeworm,
  The will to live a reflex
  Like the twitching of a frogs leg
  Mind controls being.
  We are Assyrians
  We ache with frustration,
  Our balls are aching.
The opening of the second revelation.
       Here, today,
Harsher, sterner, crueller, colder.
One man in his time plays many parts.
The student, drinking down ideas
As silly old Ezra Pound
Thought he was quaffing life.
 And then the worker, drinking other things,
Yet sometimes just as happy, when it palls
He makes his bid for power;
Then the trendy, in his house and garden,
Smugly aging, still consuming,
This time more expensive things.
  All good things around us
  Are sent from Lenin above
    So thank Lenin
    Thank Lenin
    For all his love.
  Lenin the bountiful
  Lenin the lord
  Lenin the Santa Claus
  Lenin the sword
  Lenin the merciful
  Lenin the Puck
  Lenin the beautiful
  Good for a fuck
  Lenin the masterful
  Lenin the deep
  Lenin the murderer
  Lenin the creep.
Venus and Niobe in reckless abandon.
  The loving and the weeping,
    All the pain.
I shall pour out of me what I
    Have to say.
I bring no forgiveness,
As God I am friend and oppressor,
Enemy and drinking companion..
I march as the English into Ireland,
Thrilled by the beautiful chorus of hate
 That rises against me.
 Thrilled that the people do not love me.
 I am Sennacherib.
I march as a liberator into Belgium.
Grateful girls swoon at my feet.
  Horizontal collaborators.
I walk for hours around Tottenham,
Along tedious streets,
I speak to lunatics, mental defectives,
Washouts, illiterates, epileptics,
People with tattoos on their faces.

Truly am I part of any movement?
Have I ever made a decision?
I think there is a vein of deep destructiveness,
Down at the root of me.
  Animus and anima
  Incest and servitude.
Even with firm correctness
  There will be evil.
Truly, did I make any decision?
Was I one who took a path?
Chose I thus in wisdom or in error?
  "If so, then I could be loved,
  Could be forgiven".
But I did not.
I am a force
Strong enough to bear my own evil,
A storm God, Yahweh, wishing well
   To all outside
The orbit of my curses.
Sometimes only the youngest child
   In a family of ten.
Wiser than Yahweh,
 I have no superstitious
Reverence for names.

Chapter the Second of the
    Second Revelation,
Here, now, today,
    Animus and anima
Incest and servitude.
  Elemental drama.
  Archetypal myth.
Cheiron and Prometheus.
There is the fact of things.
There is the cruelty.
There is no repentance.
Yes there is hope, yes there is
     Great hope!
Thew period of servitude
    Of the unduly timid
    Will last forever
And the meek shall
    Forfeit the earth!
Always there was something
    Plain as daylight.
Why did you not perceive it?
Mark well these words.
    Memories crowd,
But I burn with the pain of frustration.
A young girl's buttock,
Breast, nipple,
Cutting of vein.
  Lust and sentiment...
Nothing significant here,
  Far too material,
The very bad book one
    Always remembers,
    Painfully appalling;
A wave of revulsion.

Wife of enemy of the people.
  Indecently attired,
  Wives and molls,
  Dancing for the
  Sexual rousings, stiffenings,
An eighteen year old girl student,
    Well produced,
    Very desirable,
    Skilfully presented,
  Blatant unprotected.
The hatred of the world outside.
   Hated minority,
   Envied for their freedom.
  Betting, drinking, sexual
Rousings, stiffenings, moistenings.

      Work ethic.
   Trendy bitches,
  Patronising and ludicrous,
    Capable people,
Useful members of society.
      A trendy bitch,
  Physically undersized,
  Stick her on a spit,
   Slow roast her.
 An excellent means of
 Securing a high protein
     Diet you fucking foul-mouthed
Why do I write, what am I doing?
  The pleasure of creation palls,
    Tired as I feel;
A flood of words, a torrent
    Of prejudice.
What can come of it, what
    Of my hope?
  I am the Walt Whitman of the
 Other side of the night.
    Something will come of it,
    Something I pray.
Amidst a world of
Seething squalor, Christianity, corruption,
Weakness, fear, imminent
Insanity, inadequacy and perversion,
    Coagulates a droplet
    Preternaturally sweet;
Something in the heart of you you
Frightened, self obnoxious scum,
Something to be licked before
      You die.

My hatred is the expression of my love,
  Random, disjointed, boring
Torturers of animals in the
Interests of medical training,
Psychiatrists and bureaucrats,
    Growing in power,
Committee lovers,
     Small minds,
Expanding in power,
The vivisector, the doctor,
    The nurse,
Filth and death, decay,
 And numbing banality;
A hand up an aged arsehole,
    A shriek of pain;
Executioners, undertakers,
Firemen scooping up brains
    Off the road,
Torturers of animals, pompous
Idiots, human racists,
   All the unpleasantness.
  Those who defile within
    Twenty paces;
Bald faced, bright pink, oil haired,
   Foul breathed uglies.
     Filth upon filth.
  Barbers, dentists, masseurs,
Brutal Russian policemen,
     Human contact,
The bitter curses of those I have killed,
   Human flesh, revolting, the arse
Of a girl one does not fancy,
    In trousers too tight,
Phlegm at the back of the throat;
The arrogance of trendies, vapid,
Protected, the sexuality
 Of yobboes, smears of human
Rush hour travel by bus or tube,
 Crowds, indignant demonstrators,
  Marxist study groups, women's
Liberation workshops,
  Fraternity, revolution,
Christianity, Judaism.
 Torturers of animals in
The interests of science;
    The stink of a dead mouse,
    The stink of the virtuous,
       Inco pads;
Farmers, polluters, destroyers;
Architects, planners, polluters,
9 to 5 homunculi, those with power
       And no taste;
The workers, the insensitive.
  I would not so insult
A pig or a rat or an insect
     As to compare.
I would be your new Aristotle.
   I cannot die of loathing.
   Relations never before perceived.
     Magic keys.
     I to be judged.
    Condemned to live.
  'What do you do with your
   Fucking money?'
     Degrees of squalor,
        A culture of squalor.

  Satisfaction has a place somewhere.
    Where is it?
The occasional piece of interpreted flattery
Which makes me think well of my friends,
Some short snatched sargasso
 Of self satisfaction,
In the turbulent ocean of tormented sexuality,
Something that feels, for however
Brief awhile, like not a delusion;
  Odd things that sometimes happen.

Abhorrence of the fleshly,
The soft and animally organic.
Repulsive, unaesthetic;
    Tactile disgust.
Yet there is a sense in which
   It is nothing in itself;
A range of possible qualities
That it is whereby I feel it as I do;
  A quality a reaction.
Let there be no emotional despotism.

Exhaustion, depression,
Inadequate recompense.
  Dirty, lazy, full of hatred.
  Urges to kill.
  Always the struggle.
  Difficulty pacing.
  Garbled nonsense.
 Cycling to Streatham,
  Dreary Streatham,
 Tooting, Balham,
  Very disheartening.
Back up the City Road,
  North wind blowing hard.
A year ago in Wimbledon
  Female pudenda, terminal
Experiences and black excrement.
    One year passes
Some half credits chalked up,
     Some drama.

Jasmine and honeysuckle,
Rhododendron and lilac,
Wet hawthorn blossom,
  Nut house laundry,
Silent creeper of coarse peasant,
    My friend the gardener.
Arched walkways, landscaped hills,
Gothic geometries, flowering
Rhododendrons, laburnums,
Round windows, grey stone,
Old crumbling red brick wall,
  Daisies in boggy grass,
Lollipop men in multiplicity.
Order, regularity of nature.
Paths, tracks, hanging trees, 
    Holly, willow, ash before
Cow parsley. seeded dandelions.
    Copious bluebells,
  Yellow green fungus,
    Bed of dead tulips,
   Horse chestnut blossom,
    Red to brown.
Cherry blossom confetti,
  In the wind, in the square.
  Memories blended,
Happiness of seasons.
   Mughal Emperor,
  Beautiful garden,
    Aged to perfection.
Sensually exciting.
    Mingled birdsong.
Thrushes and blackbirds,
Starlings and robins,
  Harmoniously blended.

Hints of a destiny,
A deeper excitement,
The pain and the fear, the
Frustration and the agony of
As limited perspective.
  Hints of a destiny,
Thoughts of war,
 Of incipient triumph,
  Incipient creation.
Memories of sculpture,
Of an old religious rite.
    Green tea and sweetbreads,
    Olive oil and avocado,
    Russian bread and cheap
    Uganda coffee.
 Wetness and rigidity.
  The nastiness of the young,
  The rigidity of the old,
   The wetness of queers.
  Memories of sculpture,
Two grey lumps of mad carved stone.
   A frightening disappearance.

    In the beginning was the fear,
    And the fear did create
    Drawing in all of the women
    By its power to fascinate,
    But it could not last forever
    For the power of the fear was great.
Trains of ideas,
Original discoveries,
Nursery rhymes,
Arbitrary couplets,
Words stuck together,
Inclinations, fantasies.
I never saw far beyond
The end of my nose.
     Some was lost
     Some was discarded as
     Lower than worthless.

Something mysterious.
Survey the past.
Consider the two lumps of stone.
Consider two women, struck by madness.
      Consider another.
Unsatisfactory memories.
 Total exposure.
    Mysterious forces.
      Strange competition.