In the Alchemist’s Kitchen

A poem inspired by the painting, ‘The Alchemist’s Kitchen’ by Leonora Carrington.

the alchamists table

In the Alchemist’s Kitchen

Her charged table attracts seekers toward it like a magnet pulling in iron bars. Beast-headed beings, they stand, linked by fingertips, around the lodestone’s veiled field.

Unlike the king whose corrosive touch burnt water to bullion, gold is not their goal.

This séance comes together to reverse polarities. Positioned as compass points, they drink charmed solutions from crystal goblets.

As the bewitched air transmutes to a quicksilver rose, whispering its melting secrets, the conversion is activated and these omnidirectional forces conjure up a spirit ovum.

They place this ghost-egg in parenthesis where, the words of an incantation, fluxes of winged insects, flutter about its gleaming shell.

They do not know what horror they’ve unleashed. This voodoo seed is a booby-trap! Countdown commences. As the timer’s decisive zeroes click up, the pseudoscientists scream.

Flesh melts. Bones burn to sticks of brittle charcoal, bodiless cinders, bomb-shadows.

Her calm chair repels finders away from it like an anus pushing out soft turds. Bird-footed objects, they lie, unrelated by toes, within the swab’s overt ignorance.

Like the queen whose gentle separateness froze fire to plastic, silver is their indifference.

This conversation falls apart in similar convergences. Lost as constrained antipathies, they express unlucky problems from organic ridges.

As the repellent earth maintains a constant weed, bellowing its harsh explanations, the stagnation is ceased and these subordinate weaknesses dismiss a materialistic sperm.

They jettison this human-seed in focus where, the numbers of repulsion, stabilities of crawling birds, dither within its leaden kernel.

They know what delight they’ve contained. This valid harvest is a release.

Arrival terminates. As the uncontrolled insignificant infinities rattle down, the technicians murmur.

Feathers solidify. Blood freezes to stones of robust pulp, concrete reconciliations, pillow-shimmer.

 

 

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THE DAISY SEQUENCE (An Unconventional Romance)

Drawn from the language of Mills & Boon romances, this text is a reworking of a randomly selected paperback. 

It is written sequentially. As I scan-read the book, page by page, letting words and phrases present themselves to me, a strange narrative evolves. This methodology offers the reader an offbeat, potentially erotic storyline. 

Using ‘Twitter’ as a first format for presenting the text, each section was formed of ‘tweet-sized’ chunks.

Here it is in its entirety

Daisy froze distinctive drawl. It pierced the buzz and bolt of alarm. She had to be lashed by tongue duty. Swinging people expected her. Daisy stretched the spray that sprouted a few blue arrowheads. She checked every spillage. Elbowing her fixable stain was this nasty crisis. Daisy stopped emotions. Her inner savage flesh was power-packed to shoot hostile eyebrows. Puzzlement bored into distraction. Daisy clicked.

Daisy had one arm in his sculpted mouth, perfect white teeth making Daisy’s spine crawl. Daisy pleasure rattled out. He viewed her brown. Daisy viciously took his grip, pressing a dominant please and giving subservient temper. Simmering, perverse, limelight floated unreal lack. Daisy held firm cutting. He nodded towards the disappointment. The rush of watching mischief and the ego trip with feather girlfriends. Daisy slid his blunt fireworks, curvy body swish into her scalp chocolate. To extract himself like dirt he slung a slave tossed shrug.

Daisy left horses glued to suburban anxiety. Privately, she bothered chefs. Rigid venomous stomach churn. Her battle with cage. He’d automatically force a face-to-face, aroused like a pale bristle. She sucked a shooting act. Her mouth blistering precision. Impasse. She tried biting mocking instructions. His body evasion attacked her reading. He stilted her beautifully feminine bitch fingernails. Oh!

Daisy’s mind was whiplash. Panic ribbons sliced in. Daisy tried displeasure. Her hair-prickling bomb was going to fall out. Blabbermouth. Limp and unconscious, he had to hook her blood-jungle. Stiffening, he grimaced. There was a huge smallness of her waist. His bulging agreed.

Daisy babbled offensive affairs and hissed at appalled dizziness. A chair was needed. Correctness would answer his actions. Black dog wits. The phrase wrecked his face. Daisy flocked extreme guilt. She drove messy twiddling to several trucks. The flood was huge, white symmetry. Daisy couldn’t bear justice, she’d stopgap male charisma. Riveting him near hormones, despite differences. His touch was a pink nothing.

Daisy was unsettling. He spoiled obscene people. She’d been a blind charmer. All he’d been was a forging crisis. Disillusionment lingered. Dirty bedrooms and enormous vanity, her head wasn’t messy. Daisy bit too disturbingly strong. He rattled out a short and stocky mistake. Daisy made the men laying the mix, splash. She shot a bit too much into airs and graces. She laid out on the floor, regret at its removal. Perhaps the lady wanted a good block. She snags the flow. A man brushing a physical flash needed her bent. Daisy greeted silk, the deep V.

Curly muscularity oozed, the more she saw of him. Wantonness eroding to lift her above. Daisy would have intimate dreams. Opened sex at eyes. The twinkling flutter flashed a teasing grin. Besotted by mush, her pulse tossed a featherlight thundering. Her terrible part sucked in. Daisy was vulnerability coming a wad. She mouth-quirked amusement to emphasise splash. He popped out of her smile, smacked a fun promise.

Tomorrow drove the kiss coursing in a sweeping staircase. Only constraints stopped him. Daisy surrendered to the vibrating moment. They met.

Daisy was wearing trim socks, athletic loose blue over a sensible sexless outfit. One stomach simmered green. Men are up. Down the vacuum. Wives dropping hostess salads, onions with a shrug. Daisy was vexed, she would dump her cucumber vigour. Chemistry was pillow-talk gamble. She could manage a cherry whipping. Those wickedly urgent limits. Compelling some headway, she’d played dead-meat sex. Steak and sausages. Every second it jerked her to dripping wet. Emanating savage quivers, he’d slid her with fast fingers. She was uncontrollable in maintaining. Her body-frantic snatching stripped thought. Daisy had jelly belly water watching husbands joking devotion. He irked to arouse her nerves. Daisy rose to difficult tongue. Her quip legs shining like a brazen pouch. Her blood-conscious nipples insisted a stiff anxiety. Sensual? He waved meat rustle, leaving Daisy open-mouthed, struggling for escape. She would have him by beating him. She could hold vulnerability.

Daisy changed back into morning, an acute light pretending the surface. The wipe-me-off attraction anticipating easy twinkling. She sliced. She netted a delusion beat. Her rocket, his bemusement. The fizz of pleasure undermined the bruise. His relish in bearing his foolish loss. Daisy practised to dominate every skillful beating. He dropped, he tossed, he swept. Banging exertion, her body was hot, wild, surge. Kiss. Clamping her spread hair, his intimate furrowing locked her scent. His untouchable embrace more lusty animal than the break-up. Earth hate. She didn’t Cinderella him, he’d had enough crooked prize pushed on and going home. Tomorrow she couldn’t trust herself. Jeopardy would be.

Daisy responded sex fantastic. She erupted shock criteria bouncing swiftly toward the caveman. His angle followed her to the pride equation. Daisy could barely bind umbrage. She had passionate twisted expertise but was his flesh pumped? Daisy had wet patches. Working laces, sigh. He laid the groundwork. Anguished weakness waiting for sardonic satisfaction. She was shying hot colour. The time span jagged harshly.

Debt. Future mistress, sweeten that humiliating truth with a huge pleasure. Personal wound savagely mocking narrowed victory. She took on a twist. Little witch unhitched, unfolding tension like a compressed house. The nape of her neck reached the closest door. Bitter truth was hers.

Daisy was quickly bubbling mistress depression. Her weather poured warmth. He expected to have her matter-of-factly and as usual she was on. She put telephone-difficult nerves home and ambivalence demonstrated the die was cast. Now he rolled on. At first, Daisy was pinned to it. It was irrelevant what went down in his house, absurd how much pleasure it gave her. Sex was extraordinary lengths, a ruthless softening. The carpet question plus electrical apparatus left the needed elsewhere. Daisy dizzied with ebullience, her excitement a fierce gladness. The next morning, Daisy let him completely dominate her. The line had to be a euphoric state with no physical contact. Cream dip her whirl. He took longer than usual to stop her trembling hands smudging her mascara. Unlikely cleavage, swingy folds, painful mirror. She felt it.

He was mentally fatigued by Daisy waiting for him at home. She’d been so perverse. He hated to take everything, as glass as a ponytail. Pleasure welled in their noses. Daisy the princess-mould and him, the back door. No trace of upper breasts, groin strides, electric thighs. She forgot to remember the kitchen-shock. Patting her free hand, his batted vigour switched off. He was completely primitive-freak-bondage. Eloquently, she smacked his blood. Like a lollipop, she dumped her grin on his stipulated sensitivity. The wish gurgled from her throat.

He rolled on, unbuckling, jackknifed and unzipped. She hadn’t worn her nipples. He commanded her sleeves with all-devouring, inner muscles. His terms had sabotaged her benchmark. Of course the highs were guarantee of time wanted. She wormed bliss on wagging bottom. He spent out.

The morning after… Daisy lay spooned. How did he intend to fill her? Hardship addicted flow was his tired toy. The inevitable line. Very slowly she lifted her bag, clownish eyes fastened in a top-knot. She soaped all over, a brisk erase in her skin. She was in the act. The rich purr of satisfied demanding ran down her spirit. He had a slave breath coming to an abrupt blaze. Battle-vivid laughter rippled.

Daisy felt like an aeroplane. Her coffee-black possession hankering for the whole-moon package. That frightening loss of months. He runs. Though there had been that frightening bed, he started cutting up, shooting up and wading through gold dross. Daisy slipped out a lemon. She tilted an ironic doubting. This power-dress was spicy and eager to burst into arousal. Daisy did not leave satisfied harmony.

She gazed. White wakes shifted her glamourous black wave, hugging her mind until she became a fantastic flute. He wished with flitted mind but he shied. Daisy bent for filching, meticulous about not taking her stick. He locked ice. She hadn’t heard the thick cream. Footsteps murmured relax. Daisy clamped down on the bitter truth.

Her quibble wanted long, fierce desire. His embrace kissed a savage need, all passion when tomorrow.

Daisy’s astonishment was given exaggerated worth. She’d already told them she’d seen a big hole. Her champagne trips made objection free. He was a control freak and Daisy was hopelessly in love with him. She dropped protection, hammered pie and gathered eye-popping stuff. They deepened reasonable galloping. She had emerged and bloomed sunshine, he had pounced on her magic, pink fish. Instincts had to nail her. A crowd of entrance gates escorted her towards a pin-stripe suit, Daisy winced encouragement. He was rudeness needing flamboyant belly hair. He had queen-cupping shoes. Daisy was walkable. He threw up hero-frustration. She tossed off. They simply constructed quizzical graces.

There can be no ego in that story. Daisy let her bitch-loyalty shake hands with a stunningly porcelain hat. The big man demanded quaint cow. Daisy replied, relishing the roll of her tongue. Flirting, the man was with bigger pockets. Daisy answered in gaudy snipe. He held her high. He performed an amazing helicopter parade. Daisy’s chair leaped up. She vacated the empty box and tried riding a dizzying detail. He swept. Bubbles burst into giggles as they rode the elevator. She sucked, he took his willpower under restraint. The moment-door shared it with him.

Until the telephone rang, Daisy automatically repeated skitter-time. He thought sweet problems. She might bring the crushing dream. It was. Daisy emphatically burned violet stress. Her fly-panic fumbled the probing ferocity. He frowned. Her hook glinted with sickening doubt. She believed in being obscenely, sinfully, sexy. Her obsessed counting was as odd as a huge basket of misgivings. Daisy dressed in green.

She heaved a sigh to loosen up the tightness. A wobbly burden drove them to appologise in a cul-de-sac. Children nodded. Daisy watched baby. Daisy yelled awkward husband material. His stumbling blocks crossed the centrepiece. He complimented her mother-pork. She felt constrained. They swooped on astonishment. They crowed puzzles. They cheerfully scoffed about toast and a black hole. They raised a family of nose dreams.

EVIDENCE

And this body intends to be nowhere else but here, sitting on this chair; the one with the legs made of saliva.

The object of this physique is to establish whether or not the seat, supported on its spittle-limbs, is in fact a chair or not.

These bulky bones make an impression on this chintz cushion that is stuffed with teeth-torn nails; jagged and ripped half-moons.

The air is thick with terror. It passes through the investigative figure’s shaking lungs and re-emerges as a shared joke.

Tears the size of lagoons drop to the carpet which, is no longer a nylon weave but has become instead a shaved scalp.

The formless form places a cracked glass to its thirst, what was once clear, cool water is now strands of hair. It chokes.

Fingerprints litter the floor and on the bed a greasy pillowcase shows where a phantom head shifts uneasily from side to side all night.

Sleep is impossible until the conundrum is solved. The weight of an insomniac is equal to that of a 50 litre barrel of blood.

It tosses, scratches, rubs. Flecks of irritation permanently mess that corner. But it is not known why this phenomenon occurs.

Neither is it understood who or what dirties these clothes; shit-stained underwear skid-marked with itches.

Off-white sweat patches mapped into armpits. Mucous seepage everywhere.

Everywhere.

A climate of effluvia everywhere.

A Lice

When I stare at my miserly body mirrored in the intimate imitation of the hours of yesterday, I ache to step outside the limitations of its guilt-edged frame.

I want to go beyond the sensation of the scared child glaring blackly back, to shut-down its tirade of tyrannical thoughts and openly become a ferocious cloud, a mighty waterfall or a cyclical happening of ceaseless breaths.

I have prodded and pushed myself into many inappropriate positions. I have tried to face-up to the lies of the loaded dice and I have eaten the earthly flesh from both sides of the nonsense-mushroom; only to gag on its bitterness.

Wonderland was the world I was told to long for; the place where anything could happen, the place where I could grow a new head.

Instead I have become my own infatuation, my own torturer and my own mean-minded master. I wear weird costumes and queer masks, I perform bizarre tasks. I invent fabulous horrors for myself and I disobey my commands. There are no rules here. I drop like sand through my own fingers; I am an esoteric storyteller.

And I am the heroine, hurled into outrageous adventures, swirling anticlockwise through corridors of locked doors.

I tease myself with out-of-reach keys and ingest drugs that make me shrink, then swell me to enormous proportions. I cry tears big enough to drown in and float along in this plot like an upturned boat.

Occasionally I get stranded on a strange island, where cats and mice play cat-and-mouse games with me and scare away the imaginary birds.

Some days, dressed as a white rabbit, I magically return to the beginning, to chastise my make-believe other and taunt my invented self with a hypnotic watch that ticks backwards.

Glove Story

Gloves mate for life but,

the solo-glove is a mutant udder, an other of deformed teats, seeking another. Another in search of its misplaced (s) wanting to pluralise into a conjoined-twining.

It is also a stranded deep-sea creature washed too far ashore, unable to return to its aquatic habits.

Within the solo-glove’s jewelled imagination, it senses the five thefts of the finite.

This uninvited criminal act is deliberately performed by a tricky sand-villainess. Often regarded as that in which judgements flourish alongside one another, this femme fatale steals the solo-glove’s liberties.

This uninvited criminal act is deliberately termed, ‘Sightseer’ and purposely labelled, womanly.

Undeterred by her sticky mittens, the solo-glove suffers incessant dizzy spells but, as our unlawful lady’s name suggests, she is not only the solo-glove’s nemesis, she is also the solo-glove’s honoured guest.

The scheming of those refracting, factual moons, whose relatives are not adverse to any occurrence that has too many broken others, is represented by those devious brothers; Previously, Currently and Up-and-coming. They are the solo-glove’s fractalised selves.

When it is past the tense stage and no waking-words can alter this because its nocturnal-flagships have emerged and merged, the solo-glove’s emasculated cries will take first prize, morning, noon and night AND IT WILL CALLOUT FOR JUSTICE!

And see, here are the solo-glove’s gory hands, and its embarrassed eyes, and swinging sex organs that spit and crackle and flash –

All are so quick to vanish it’s as if a star has come to personally deliver the collapsed pain of its spectacular implosion.

To ensure the solo-glove does not forget it is inseparable from its other-handed pair, thumbprints are taken.

Despite this, the solo-glove continues diving though ultramarine hoops, searching for forlorn treasure-maps, grabbing at sheets and stabbing at meat.

And slowly but surely, the next phase appears to go on and on and on, eating the solo-glove’s heart out.

BULL

This poem uses a found text as source material. The text was an essay called ‘Poetic Evidence’ by Paul Eluard. My method is one of deleting/editing. I use liquid paper.

Rather than writing words, I reveal them; by erasing the old I create the new.

 

bull skull

1)

Pot Eden.

Mace pots clam the hand,

taint the red pole.

Her menu if night be fry

and what nuts they have.

Bells that ring dark cold are news man

and beware the vile ear-mud on the shapeless, greatness.

There is no mode for him that seeks what he has never seen.

We long to wither.

2)

Eyes equal an uneasy spite,

a sort of cut that ages,

absolute.

Eyes, all ivory, all speech,

come to shut.

Eyes more useful than love.

3)

Sin is the top ale,

it can devalue every man.

Sense is a solid sown, mental child.

4)

By then thin, olden,

he ages, grouting wearily.

5)

Post-very tight vanity.

Too old.

Prose, novel.

6)

Butterstone, magnetic sting.

A rented non-living plight inverts the verse,

out its hot art.

Eaten verse.

A uni-sentence fuses the truth, the truth, the truth

to the truth again.

Objecting to ponder.

7)

A modern kiss,

a hip thing,

a terminal word,

a sly sentiment,

a sand sensation

over.

8)

Call my volume, soft hum.

Speak ether.

Form dust.

This volume is a nail-snap,

a log-timed tribe,

a useless van’s immense rot,

an object, a tall order.

9)

The hunger for elves is a potty war

that lashes the vinegary tone

between a real hat,

a concrete hat,

a blood-wound hat.

The hat that seems to emit an orgasmic yes.

To hide their lack and their hat torture.

10)

Sea-books demonstrate knowledge and prison.

They bone food, sew order, rosy matter

and destroy meaning.

Trepan the threads countless swarm.

Ore-practise hole-divinity.

Pop hell in the till,

toot tree thought and soot-rot a member’s protest.

11)

Man, an atheist,

went to the supreme being.

He dared to piss against the people’s being

From noon to print he enters

copying.

12)

Swish, gack,

vile man forces

his liberal wee onto the name of God.

The supreme ape melts when its oneness

is wee wee fresh,

and snow, profound,

wet the roof he loved with nil words.

13)

Tics and wolves are not being loved.

Impossible hair-princes pleasure their love-rise

against cunt.

Glass-red-raw

they sour morality.

Our paradise, our God, our hell

and slow, liquid, skin-fires get blood-spit mad.

14)

Sperm swords set up hep ways

that ape the true poets.

Lost, they hiss, ” Lion-trial. “

Let them.

15)

Lust must live first.

The maddest host waves at the she-ghosts.

Boil a total verse, bed it.

16)

Trip, fear, sexist signs.

One moth-soft twat,

wet, moist, lights.

The fierce art, whether vulgar or subtle,

straps us by the toes.

17)

Bland, auto-strip slides

adorn each beach object.

Aches meditate on becoming real holes,

to reveal the full, useless heat-sphere it creates.

Dead-rot horses

rave themselves by the miserable fire and water.

18)

Anal-weapons anger the eyes.

They demolish the imp’s rage,

they ravish the door’s open violence

and wither man’s face.

19)

An array of arms and chants bunk the power ecstasy.

The long beast trims the slim chain of knowledge.

Here a swell driver pounds sea-demons

with his end-fuse.

20)

An absurd bone and ice disc

slows down all the trees ariel-elastic.

Time apes the small, numb pig-person

and that is human greatness.

21)

Today is a no-go area.

Never utter in the ears of the gun.

Axes bombard the ears with cheap wax.

Each artist dogs a mat with a bee-drawing.

22)

Dirt chases tar over the evil, evil sea.

Sleep goddesses’ cries

fuse the moral nothings to the liberal ideas.

Death is present in wax and bells.

23)

Under the pavement a ghostly song is heard.

Pay little heed to laughter

it is of science.