'my eunuch dreams, all seedless in the grave
light of darkest night, must serenade the womb.
my eunuch dreams, all deedless in the caverns
of the bbc must storm the deadened tombs
of the dusk; and madness reaches out for the rain
as grain shapes its sick from out the bended cause
of the stars and their shine: the moonless shores
of the dead and dying deify the scarring storm.
a mirror is an adze and an adze is heaven's slave
as a bee is a wasp and a hive is a sextant.
sextant is an old word and the sun breaks down.
a piano is chinese and all pianos have elbows.
a winding savage with one leg must doctor rent pain.
my eunuch deeds must fuck a scolded ego.

my eunuch dreams, all needless in the grave
churches of the soul, serenade the spewtum
of the spaces found in the proctors of love's ears
and the stars are spatial as the mind sinks down
into a strange room where there are dead girls
who dance with the prance of the wandering dreams
of the boys who sing for a dollar and a dime
as sadness plays tunes with the colours of rainbows.
a mirror is a watch and a watch is an ocean.
the blackness of faith's skin swills amphetamines
as toilets play with the largeness of their runes
seen pissing where the clouds thrill with sound.
sound is a trough as urinals split the mien
of daughters slain by the softness of the bowel.

my eunuch dreams like the words of timeless gods
and the scarot is osiris as osiris parries februs
and the strange raped curves of young women fed by
the tiers of the palls that seem to stream with foam
must shit in this mind and purge all cunts of soil.
an apple is a bridge and fish dinners fill the dicks
of men seen laughing at lust's onion-baked disdain.
eyes seek loss as the souse of sout-led loves
rend from the dead the sallowed cheeks of loaves.
a mirror is a dial as dial reflects death's face.
a winding savage with one leg will always feel
for the infants in the rooms of the blended bells
of theft's faith: my eunuch deeds must enshroud
the coffees of the cancer that steals away angels.

my eunuch dreams, all speedless in death's caves,
must blacken the nails of the children sailing with
the bleached urinals of the madness made bare
where cleanliness is dead and the lightning sounds
the worms of the razed and sex-igniting fires
of the cursed and craven beniters of death's dawn.
an egg is a mirror as a mirror splits the trees.
an oak is an elm and a beech is made from ash
and my eunuch deeds, pleadless, will make cash
from the spoils of the coasts which frighten kids.
the oak is an elm and the cliffs inside their coves
craze with despisal the shrunken isles deposed
by the shit and the piss of tomorrow's saviours
and my eunuch deeds must snap the spine of god.

an egg is a moon and the moon's a mug of tea
as an ape is a spoon and an egg-spoon is a monkey.
my eunuch dreams, all seedless in the glades
of light and dark, must storm the rape-led fields
where the dead go dancing: my eunuch dreams reel
in the east, and churches slap the eyes of lust
and a dog is a cat and the feline curses of
the dusk must strip the skins from off the bones
of the dead who whisper at the charms of death.
my eunuch dreams must saunter with the deft
arrows of the sun as theft's archers on the rise
shake bullets at the moon: the red pratts of sex
must taunt, with fear, the jonquils in the ground.
my eunuch deeds must lance away the sensual.

my eunuch dreams, all creedless in the forests
of the brooks which storm the darkness of the trees
must spurn from my soul the slappers on the rise
from the depths of the seas that rend the disguise
of this child who leaps against the shallow moon
and a mirror is a dial and a dial refracts abandon
and my eunuch deeds, all needless in the waves
of the bays and estuaries will always taint the scent
of life, and life lies spoiled where heroes climb
from the vents of birth: there is a place yonder
where the sun burns green - the deadness of the soul
wees on the mud and eats its shitting sloes
and shit feeds piss and piss is drained of wet
where the pockets of boys are filled with sperm.

my eunuch dreams, all shieldless in the caves
of light and dark, storm the entertaining croons
of the boys who sing where the thrust stage is set
for the dead and their spinning: this earth is moved
by its sound; and the dirge of love's rended mandolins
seen playing near where the notes of music ply
the unsexed with the children in this decried eye
must lance from my mind the softness of the rain.
my eunuch dreams will break the human brain.
the sea is a mirror and a mirror is a dial
and 'dial' is an old word and death is reflected
by the iris of the dead and the stars shine bright.
and my eunuch needs, all shielded in the naves
of light and dark, storm the penitential leas.

my eunuch dreams, all pleadless in the graves
of the imprisoned soul, storm the westend moon.
the candle of my sex lies buried in the thighs
of the thieving girls who burn all houses down
to the ground: my mind is destroyed by the insane
words of the birds who scream like cat banshees
and cats gather seashells from off the spurning shores
of the oceans: death, seen man-wagering where
the Idylls of the raped kill passion's casuistry,
defines from the smashed lust's chinese pianos.
the whales in the bays break out from their waves
and source from the sun the darkness of rivers
as my eunuch dreams, all deedless in the graves
of the imprisoned soul, storm the mons veneris.

my eunuch dreams, all traded in the knaves
of the church which splits a narrowing mind,
must launch the strange ships of the dancing floors
where mad men define the madness wrecked
by the coins and the pounds of sadness countersigned
by the flights of the dead and their signatures.
my eunuch dreams, all sleazeless in the maze
of the churches burned must strike away the killed
words of the girls who taunt the fallowed sprays
attached to the staves of the spent philosophies
of the seas which delve the anvils of theft's pulse.
and a dial is a mirror and a mirror must reflect
the fact that 'dial' is an old and useless word.
my eunuch needs will prove that death is real.

My eunuch dreams, all trendless in the laves
of the bbc must lance away the surreal
verbs of the kids who fuck the reins which bear
the babies in the rooms of commercial television.
the adze of the sun lies burning in the scents
of the women who dig the awls of the stormed
tombs of the dead as the ark of the infernal
imprisons yellowed eggs in the robes of the brained
kin and kith of the tar-mac spread upon the roads
of the clocks that turn against the macadamic
mansions of the stars: a dimension of wrath
will always strive to tape the singers who live
for the songs of the dead as the dead must give
my eunuch needs to an Osiris-Isis epode.

my eunuch dreams, all bent inside the dreamed
waves of summer's seas, must taunt the descried
verses of the dead as the sureness of the killed
spends from the maimed the onion-fried loos
of the kids who slide across the shended rinks
of ice, built high, where the rills and their streams
charge the frigid Thames with the clitoral drains
of the sewers, spent, splashing with the bays
of oceans: this verse defines the dancing nudes
who spring from out the bays the pipes of defamed
boys who lace their veins with soils entertained
by the verves of the lakes and the elm and the ash.
a mirror is a dial and a dial reflects the coasts
and 'dial' is an old word which is seldom utilised.

my eunuch dreams, all spermless in the graves
unearthed where bodies dance and sing for death,
must break from the reeds that float in the tombs
of waters, stunned by the boats seen sailing where
there is no defined face on the oceans of the air.
my sex is defunct because doctors cut away
the silk of my cock: the testicles of changing day
must delve the vas deferens of musicians on the rise
from the harboured ship of lust's rivers: sex is steel.
and my eunuch dreams, all seedless in the graves
of light and dark, must storm the buried wombs
of woman: stars will serenade the spended bolts
of the phallus of god as Osiris breaks love's wind;
and my eunuch needs will resurrect rape's Aalu.

my eunuch dreams, all tended by the caverns
of the death-defining heart must storm the fluid tears
of the dead who dance against the sea and time.
the mirrors of the stars dedicate to the holy
words of the fed as Amida builds her cause
and the birds of the trees are spent by the seas
in which defiance strips the red branches from
the bushes and the shrubs of the shriven new day.
my eunuch dreams, all dread-locked in the caverns
must taunt, with light, the bestiaries of fear
as the quietus made by the revenues of seed
spurt glaucous from the sucrose of this weed
smoked when the night dictates the strange flush
in the cheeks of young girls: lightning spins.

my eunuch dreams, all brocaded in the staves
of music that haunts the passions of the heart
predicate the verve of the poems born at sea
as my eunuch needs pandecate the soulless
trips of men from the city to the country
and my eunuch needs, all deedless in the claves
of churches sacrificed to the loaves and the fish
spend from the rain the madness of death's fist.
Aalu lives and the scent of timeless healing
listens with the eyes and the muses of the dark
source from the stars a place in death's park
where the children graze on the grass, enslaved
by the fission made plain by the tantric bearths
of the ships which sail against the clock, burned.

my eunuch dreams, castrated by the firms
of light and dark, crusade for seas which turn
away from the spurts of the female foetal siege.
my eunuch dreams, unsexed by fields of grain,
delve from zeal the timeless spaces in the ears
of woman, laughing, as her mockeries grow sour;
and my eunuch needs, castrated by the night,
dedicate forever to the worms inside the grave.
altarwise, the air must change from red to black
as the marxists in the tides of the bays and estuaries
summon from the dead the crows and the sparrows
that dig from the soils the banks of winter's rivers;
and my eunuch needs must vandalise theft's coast
as the homes in their flow smash mirrors, cleansed.

i do not have a dick and night is filled with trees
who rend from rapes the sickness of the owls.
the nightingale was philomele and this buried soul
must starve and thence grecian sermons made
in the rooms of the tombs found dancing with Iris
will graze, with psoriasis, the skins of the razed.
i do not have a sex and this night is a good night
because i have used magazines that kill with calm
the minds of mankind: the bullets used by this gun
taint, with red paint, the ilex in the plants light grows:
and men are waiting to take us to the severed gardens
and there we find rubies and schizoid fields of azure.
and this poem has a poke-hole which fucks bent leaves.
my eunuch needs must kill the pilgrim fathers.

my eunuch dreams must storm the murdering
brightness of the semen which forms the plants
of the living and the dead: the summons of the burned
will soften true faith with the darkness of the spent
births of the dead; and life must tend the pulse
of the blood born bent as the scales of dinosaurs
write the scarred verses of the witness on the rise
from the meadows and the fields of winter's stain.
a mirror is a dial and 'dial' is an old word
and man uses the phone to telephone the moon
but death lies near, blackened by the flames
of the wrecks of the boats seen sinking in the sink.
my eunuch dreams must storm the cunt of love
as the lips of the stars reveal that sex is ended.

the carotid pulse lies beating in the throat
of the girl who drinks her own menstrual urine
and women who weep for the scream inside the mouth
of the child who sings defecates inside the words
of repetition; and semantics will prove that death defines
a place for the dead as eyeliner paints the lashes
of the infants borne upon the biers of sex and death.
my eunuch dreams must fill this poem with
the sane: inane people cannot speak for the boys
who dance all night long - neither might the joys
of the married couples, dancing in the moonlight,
end the reeling joys of the grateful dead.
Osiris-Isis fills the skies with moonshine, killed
and my eunuch dreams must fuck a dead child.

my eunuch dreams, all reedless in the tamed
churchyards of the moon, storm the musical clouds.
Abaddon is pierced by the fierceness of the hail
which falls from the skies of the sunrise, stained
by the shores of the sun and the red stars avowed
to the stalls of the horses that lance away Eden.
and my eunuch dreams, all steedless in the fey
churchyards of the rain, storm the rape-kissed plains
of Yoga: the tantra of the rape-beniting storm
shend, from the dead, the gods inside the seas
of Wales; and the rod of Aaron canes the trees.
Asmodeus drinks from the glasses of the killed
and silence breaches the glibness of the sensual.
my eunuch needs must fuck a murdered girl.

my eunuch needs, all folded in the graves
of this rended night, storm the tides of the mind
and the dead speak out from the caves of the killed
coasts; and the light stains the veins of time
and love must rape the tears from out the eyes
of children, chidden with their own inflamed
sex: mirrors must refract the seas and bays
where estuaries roll into the lakes of the stormed
rills; and the quiet that folds the killed around
the dreams of the drowned will fuel with oils
the slicks of sick which poke all murdered girls;
and my eunuch needs, all crushed inside the graves
of light and night, defecate on christ's arrival.
Osiris-Isis fills the skies with the rapist's trill.

my eunuch needs, all seedless in the staves
of the burning churches, compete with withered flowers
and the daughters of the moon, bent and broken down,
dance in the meadows and the fields of the rain
and the night must snap the eyes of murdered love.
as sex confesses to the colours of the rainbow,
my eunuch needs must warp the tears of time.
a mirror is an axe and an axe bursts the blood
that blasts from the jugular of life's spent lobes
and my eunuch needs must smash the milked seas
which curse all men with the limits of the grave;
and my eunuch needs must strangle childrenkind.
and the snake is long and winds inside the storm
that brains the leas and meadows of the killed.

my eunuch needs must piss upon the flowers
that grow inside the gardens where the infants ride
dogs; and horses will always plant the bombs
which brain, with gas, the chambers of the moon.
this mons veneris is raped till death is killed
and children shall ripen when the ends of the earth
are a shot from the gun that is held by the slaves
of the stars; and darkness must bury death in cum
and my eunuch needs must piss on little women.
children shall ripen when the apocalypse is near
as the mirrors of the sun reflect the strange storm
of the dead who whisper in the ears of the caned.
and my eunuch needs must attend the scat-parties
where lithe social minds waste away the dawn.

i like luttle girls and my eunuch needs must feed
spunk to the lips of all disabled gipsies.
as hitler is my guide, this poem will displace love
and rape the tides of sick from out the steel-eyed
vaginas of the butter-basted dead: there are no apples
to be found where mosaics rip apart the senses of
the unsexed and cold: food-stuffs fuel the mouths of
this aimless tameless sonny tricky-dicky
as the knives of death drip with their menstrual cause
of women and eyes in walls will blacken lust
as the dead drift up from the sewers and the lakes
of piss and shit, devoured by preacher-men
and preacher-men own rosaries which don't have power.
my eunuch needs must kill and kill and kill.'


copyright © JED Bellamy 2004