Friday, 3 July 2015

The Coming Storm

 
The gulls are riding the winds, low above the flats
Scooter boy burps and tosses
hat

Delivery of takeaway
is this the address?

The wind picks up
a girl
standing by the road

neighbours worry
can feel the
coming

I
excite
and

wait

as the
plastic god
shivers

not in
delight

but in
terror





 (c) David Blank 

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Poetry In A Pub #20:32


That grip
foot

Stool

Inked with
Sweat
of candle

Tread

Time

Make mine a
Dark Star


#‎poetryinapub‬



(c) David Blank 2015

Friday, 5 June 2015

Blade / Fur / Crow /


That blade
Whitby
That Dantor
Giv'd me

That gift
from me
to her
that she
whetted
with fur

That love
That shine
That son
of ours
of hours
of time

Mooning in the
twilight
blade
reflect(ing)
light

Might

WHITBY
locking it
down
keeping it
sound

WHITBY
fish & chips
Herring Gull

Hooded crow

On the steeple
Sits
X



-- penned @ 18:11 on 04-06-15
© David Blank, 2015

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

The Scaffold


Sitting in my room watching them remove the steel, outside… outside the window...

Liberate me from the chains of dis-ease; free my mind from the structures of control.

With the sweat of the night still sweet on my flesh… the smell of your love still fresh in my mouth… I feel you close now… I feel you near now… I feel you deep inside me…

Sitting in my room watching them remove the steel outside… the windows...

So where are you now my love?
In the arms of another… in the arms of your lover… so where do you lie now… where do you die now…. Your need on you now… your need on you now… someone else inside you now.

I sit in the room… I watch them take the scaffold down… I feel you beside me…
Your sweat on my lips… Your pain in my heart… Your tears in my eyes.
Your flesh against mine

The smell of your love still fresh in my mouth
The sweat of the night still sweet on my flesh
I feel you close to me
So close to me now

The smell of you on me still… your sweat on my lips… your sex in my mouth… your tears in my eyes.
Oh come to me… come… to me
Let me lick your fear
Let me lick your tears

Let me free your mind from the structures of control… liberate me from the chains of dis-ease… lay beside me… close to me… deep inside me….

Drinking tea, all alone… the structures are all gone now… where are you now?

In the arms of your lover?
Where do you lay now? In the arms of another?
Where do you die now? Someone else inside you…
The need is on you now… someone inside you…

Drinking tea… the smell of you beside me… the smell of you still inside me… your sweat on my lips… sweet sex on my lips… come to me now… the way is clear… the chains are broken… the scaffold has fallen… and I feel you near… close beside me… deep inside me as I lick your fear.

Come let me lick your tears
Let me lick your fear
Let me lick your tears
Let me lick your fears
 
 
22nd April 2002
(c) David Blank 2002
 

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Words : 040614



The nail of the middle finger of my right hand snags the cloth, the scent, the smoke…

As I watch, it cleaves and sunders, tears and thunders
my finger becoming two tongues
licking
time

Which
of course
falls
wanking
all over Betty Boop's
top hat

As I sit here and write
my nail catches
splits in two
and I watch,
unfeeling, without compassion
as my middle finger
sunders
cleaves
crimson slash
that rends and heals
with serpent tongue

Then come the rains
And the birds fall silent
As the lamb's dance
to the slaughter
And the goats
wail and moan
in vain
in the rain

And the serpent tongues lick and kiss
the
keys ...




(c) David Blank, 2014

Friday, 6 June 2014

A Thumbnail...


When I first began this blog, back in August 2009, it was my intent to use it as a vehicle for my various musings from the perspective of a feral sorcerer – which is what I identified myself as at the time. I also wrote “You will no doubt be relieved to hear that I shall certainly endeavour to refrain from blogging any of my poetry,...” and subsequently went on to blog nothing but my poetry and prose-poetry – with the inevitable result that this blog ended up having nothing to do with sorcery, feral or otherwise; unless, that is, one considers that poetry, being verse, is spell-work.

In The Oracle Occult Magazine, issue 8, I wrote: “The feral sorcerer is the spinner of webs, the weaver. We spin to weave our spell into the One spell. We spin to weave our poem into the One-poem, the Uni-verse ...” 1

This begs the question as to when a poem is a spell and when a poem is an image conjured or begat from the union of poet and 'event'? Which union is, itself, a happening. If it isn't a happening then it isn't happening, mate, and you might as well take yourself off home, or down the pub to watch some horse racing. But then, is not horse racing, poetry in motion?

The poet is never far from the poem, the event is continuous, the happening is here and now.

The sorcery, subtle arte, of the poet as artist, is in the engagement, the union, the intercourse sexual and driven, the carnality of being that is key to the poet's practice.

The sorcery is to be found in the dance that is this poet's troth.

When I was a young man, during the winter of 1979/1980, I was living in an old tenement flat in Bread street in Edinburgh – just off the Grassmarket. The rear window of the flat looked out over the rear of Edinburgh Castle. One night I became aware of a presence in the room and turning around found myself face to face with the Devil. Do not ask me how I knew it was the Devil, I just did. At the time I had no interest in occultism, witchcraft or sorcery. My passion was poetry. A passion that was awoken in me when I was at Drama School and where a poet, recognising something in me, in my words, took me under his ball point pen – which is sort of like a wing, in as much as a ball point pen is the modern equivalent of a goose quill. Anyway, I digress.

Finding myself face to face with the Devil I acted instinctively and making a gesture, I said to him, “shall we dance?”

* * *

And thus it has been.

* * *

And thus it shall be.

* * *

This blog will continue as it has, it will not be renamed, which had been a consideration, even though I no longer identify as a feral sorcerer, or indeed, as a sorcerer, these days – anymore than I identify as a magician or a witch.

It will continue as a vehicle for some of my poetry and prose-poems.

To any one who visits this blog in the hope, or expectation, of reading about feral sorcery, I can only suggest that they take up birding – which is what this feral sorcerer did. 




1http://www.scribd.com/doc/38128926/Feral-Sorcery

Monday, 29 July 2013

The Ichorous Feast Redux: Take 1



One:

… … The heat cut like ice, clear and cold. Burning real nice, now, as sweat flowed spinning the side-flip serene. Crystal and clear like the finest ruby it percolated down his spine, wetting not only his shirt, but my jacket, as well.
This ichorous feast that is our desire, feast to a thousand mouths that must feed before they mate... blood meal for their brood.
Feed, mate, die.
The Way.
No more, no less.
Keeping it simple, since time immemorial...


Two:

Slab after slab of hot sweaty concrete that hisses and growls, snapping at your shoes as you walk through this valley of tears, this regal dene, Thames.
Where the fat-gorged bluebottle, fly of carrion, goes about its daily chores amidst the sweat that pours from his back, my underarms, as we sit, on park bench.
He is blood-sweat, blood-feast, food for the flies.
I Am Living Carrion.


Three:

Needle to hand he sits and waits...
For The Main-man; The Haeme-man; The Candy-man girl.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


© David Blank 2013
Reduxed: 29th July 2013 @ 19:58BST
From the original 'takes', circa 2000