The
Muse is a Dominatrix
Divertimento –
The Muse is a Dominatrix was
published in 2016 by Walter Ruhlmann in France under his imprint
mgv2>publishing which he’d been running for over two decades, now sadly
defunct. Walter and I worked on a number of projects together. As an openly gay
poet, Walter was always open to publishing poems and writing that was willing
to explore, and quite explicitly too, topics of a sexual nature. Again,
following in the great French tradition of the poets of the 19th
century, Walter had ideas very similar to myself. Beat poets and writers like
William Burroughs and Alan Ginsberg were also models to look at.
One of my major beefs with
the poetry scene in Ireland was that wherever you looked, very few people were
writing about sex in any way that was pleasurable at least, and entertaining!
This is something that the French poets of the 19th really
understood. I wanted to write about sex, but in a way that was personal. Gay
literature and gay and lesbian writers had always been hugely inspirational. What
I loved about them is that they were willing to take risks, describing the
world that truly excited them. Why weren’t any heterosexual poets doing the
same, I wondered? Its like, only the kinky folk were having any fun!
I am a child of the
eighties, sado-masochism didn’t really find a place in open society until
recently. So, photographers like Helmut Newton were showing the way. As far as
I could see, he was merely taking up the cue from Charles Baudelaire. I wanted
my writing to reflect my own strange desires. Les Fleurs du Mal… indeed!
Francis Bacon, another gay
artist, was another huge influence. His paining of a man sitting naked on a
toilet seat, or of another masturbating…. Everyday scenes which were denied a
place in poetry, or so it appeared. As a young man, this is what I wanted to
see in print. Poems about shitting and whatnot. Human excrement, as opposed to
cow dung!
The
Inheritor of Nijinsky’s Pink Petalled Tights
For
Clement Crisp
From
that most beautifully adorned graceful stride
Sprung
the Summer of Love and Gay Pride.
That
exquisite camp which is in the blueprint of the genes,
For
none can deny the fact that every man dreams
That
from every artillery piece would come a woman’s thong
Fired
explicitly at him, instead of a bomb, to put on!
Men
will always be men and let’s face it, a little dull.
So,
put on some mascara and head up to Hull.
Woman’s
the thing, the Woman’s the thing, the Woman’s the thing,
And
what a complement to her who wouldn’t be him!
Here’s
to girl boys and boy girls in turquoise
Who
like dressing up and making a bit of a noise.
For,
when you’re old and grey and lying in a pine box,
Man,
no one’s going to give a damn if you’re wearing pink socks.
Eros
– or the Discovery of Nylons
The degree and kind of a man’s sexuality
reaches up into the topmost summit of his spirit.
reaches up into the topmost summit of his spirit.
Nietzsche – Beyond Good and
Evil
G-string,
mind ligament,
balancing precariously up on the high wire
that is human sexuality;
there gathered within your purse
the intrepid movements of the blood surge-
impossible verticality!
This further compass
sets its sights on such deliberate movements,
such impeccable negotiations of skin,
your breathe –
each second counting
like a revelation.
So, intent is the mutual consideration shown
that it sets your mind alight;
the precariousness of the descent,
the quietly measured strokes
transcending all control
till you are both
flailing in a mutual sea.
What is the stiletto
but a further metaphor,
this time on legs,
of vertiginous attraction
and retraction,
a mere platform
upon which the feet balance
along the subliminal heights.
O sacred pantyhose,
synthetic materialisation of male heart’s fire.
From out of the wondrous sheen or membranous envelope
potential is being realised...
every square millimetre of the fabric
embracing her anatomy,
nanotechnology,
with mini mini lips embraced-
She then?
A walking colossus...
While through the trees
a whole battery of 88’s can be heard,
their phallic poundings
announcing her coming,
while inside Paris,
grunting cunts,
its Liberation Day.
London
In
memory of Helmut Newton
In
and above the underground, patrolling
The
Circle, battle hardened Amazons
In
their mid- thirties march through the labyrinth
Of
streets and corridors in pairs.
With
the tails of their raincoats
Flapping
like Devil Ray wings, revealing
Twin
carnations of rosy, muscular thighs,
They
gravitate towards Eros, in Piccadilly Square.
While
across the Millennium Bridge
An
army of old European surrealists,
Led
by Paul Delvaux, go to meet them.
The
orgy commence outside Whitehall,
Finally
climaxing under the shadow of Big Ben
Where
the statues of Boadicea and Nelson are released into the Thames.
Portrait
of Francis Bacon Standing in Soho
There
he is, the animal/man,
Standing
with all the nervous energy
Of
a dog under the shadows of the carrion birds
On
a street corner in Soho.
There
he is, the painter as witness.
Remember
him?
It
is he who poured forth all of the liquid madness
Back
into the arena;
Couples
coupling with all the violence of Pompei.
Or,
solitary figures painted with that sudden shock
Of
awareness at the fundamental danger of their position.
And..
going about doing everyday things as they do-
Such
as shitting, shaving, puking or simply masturbating.
But
always going back to the body,
For
somewhere here there is a spirit,
Inside
the thing,
Under
the skin.
( Divertimento is sadly out of print now)
Here is a short film of me reading some of the poems from the collection.
https://www.facebook.com/100035784744122/videos/235224164347073/
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