I take it as token
that I am alone
Because I am alone
Is a taken.

The totemic existence that I call a life
Stretches out and beyond the simple soul of man
That grasps and clasps and snatches
At the emblematic expanse of me.

It quells nought and soothes none
And ripples just enough to stir
The surface and make me question
As to the relevance of mirth and madness

In this modern day nether-world
that expounds virtue and femininity
As if they were a given;
Given maybe, but not taken.

The duality of words and lives
Are such that they never intertwine
Like I would intertwine with a body of sorts
Like yours and mine.

That’s the goal and game plan
in this situation of sterility
That I’m hell bent on clarifying;
I think this could be love.

The virtue of this life
Is contradictory to the femininity just below the surface
Though decades spent mean I can almost show
But just not yet.

It has to bubble away just out of sight
But able to be seen
Like a watermark
Signalling the waste of exposure.

It is not to be seen
Or heard
Or smelt
Or touched.

It is to be craved
And leered
And stalked
And ached.

But not had.
It can’t materialise
For that would personify it
And putrefy the dream.

So I awake from the vast vagueness
That is the virtue ridden vortex of life
And stumble back into some comatose sub-existence
Of puppetry that makes it all easier to perform.

For the performance is all important and all encompassing.
It must be the focal point of life
As the performance is the be all
And end all of life.

And with the end of life I will know love.
I will taste virtue as it drips down the back of my split open throat
That has split on the spewing femininity that was asked of me
Years ago yet years before deliverance was welcome but expected.

And I’ll die a guilty and broken man
Because society has let me down
And that is my fault
For laughing at the clowns.

They are paraded around us
in linen and finery
And we stupidly believe and laugh and scoff
instead of cutting ourselves free.

Instead of cutting ourselves free
We slaughter hope and prostitute ourselves
Like cheap and nasty whores
On the streets of Babylon.

Only we aren’t clever enough to rent out our genitals
For an ounce of gold or drop of wine.
We are paid with death!

The prostitution is good fucking though.
The fucking involves no copulation
And no orgasm
And at the completion we’re fucked.

It is perfect
Not the least bit orgiastic.
Not like if you and I were to fuck
Like dogs gone mad.

That would be wrong
For that would introduce emotion
And then I would have to suicide
Or kill you.

There is no room for emotion in the life of a man
His life is full of virtue and latent femininity
that lurks sub-surface
Searching for sobriety.

Well I wish it luck
On it’s search
As sobriety is something we as a society
Don’t encourage.

Sobriety is just a little too close to honesty
And honesty is a little too close to self
And we can’t allow that!
We’ll never touch the female sober.

I will never not drink
For that would mean knowing me:
Knowing you
And that’s the worst I can do!

So I bid thee farewell
For I am cut inside and bleed internally
That is only visible when the blood
Fills my torso and spills out of my slashed throat

that flaps open like some oversized vagina
Waiting for stimulation.
This cunt-like wound
that is the result of me touching my feminine side.

And where’s the virtue in that?

 2009 Adam Devlin



Brunswick East, Australia

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