Three steamy poems, by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Three steamy poems excerpted from “Gaytude”:

creamy overcast skies.

creamy overcast skies,
thick as yoghurt,
remind me of
you … and me …
and …
well, you know …


ciel couvert, couleur crème.

ciel couvert, couleur crème
épais comme le yaourt,
qui me rappelle
toi … et moi …
et aussi …
tu sais quoi …


Tal vez.

El amor.
El sexo.
Las mentiras.
Y tal vez te encuentre
en mis sueños errantes.



l’amour !
le sexe !
le mensonge !
Peut-être t’ai-je rencontré
dans l’errance de mes rêves.



our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a sabre’s cutting edge.



notre danse est un rituel ;
une obsession insensée
entre deux papillons de nuit
jouant avec le feu.
ni chaînes, ni fouet.
juste une attache …
et les douces conséquences
de la lame tranchante d’un sabre.

(by Adam Donaldson Powell, published in my award-winning poetry book entitled “Gaytude”, co-authored with Albert Russo, 2009, Xlibris.)

Epic poetry by Adam Donaldson Powell, Part Four.” tu sais : je vais juste t’enculer …” (love letters).



” tu sais : je vais juste t’enculer …”

( Cette œuvre est dédiée à toi, cher B. )

(New erotic gay poetry, in French, English, Spanish and Norwegian.)

Clouds over Oslo-1 (2)

my sexy french white boy!
my attraction to you
is much like the
movement of clouds:
often majestic and calm,
while sometimes making me
turbulent and lustful,
and at other times rather
playful and giddy.

Easter in Oslo, 2013.
Easter in Oslo, 2013.

j’ai attendu pendant quinze ans.
je n’ai pas été célibataire
et je n’ai pas été seul
ou solitaire.
mais j’ai attendu ce moment
pendant longtemps.

tout ce temps,
j’ai dîné sur rien de plus que
mes fantasmes et
les rêves —
de toi et moi.

et maintenant,
je suis affamé …

oui, affamé
comme un loup.


so, explain it it to me
yet again —
what is the difference between
an infatuation,
an obsession,
a lover relationship,
and what we have now?
(yummm … those petit fours
are delectable! sorry … back.)
well, i see.
how about … how about
us being good and loyal friends
who fuck together like rabbits?!!
you see,
the other options sound, well —
and egotistical;

dontcha think?

the menu

dîner pour deux …
chez moi, bebe.
tenue de soirée
avec des sous-vêtements sexy.


i will be your perfect lover.
i will never say ‘i love you’ …
and i will never try to possess you.
but, all the same,
i will love you …
and i will co-own our
sacred moments together.
and, of course,
i will release you
when that is the
most loving thing to do.

i will be your perfect lover.
(i will …)


tus labios …
tus labios.
me dan los sueños
de la mamada perfecta.
¡ay! ¡que rico!
¡que rico es!

Entre Nous

tongue darting
in and out,
like a cat
licking ice cream.
it tickles.
it pleases.
you scream.
you are ready;
here i cum.


jeg kommer til å knulle deg …
du får bare holde på —
men jeg skal nok knulle deg.



it does not concern me …

it does not concern me
that you are getting fucked
in every possible orifice
here and there;
all over the world …

it does not concern me
that you may get body-searched
and groped in the airport control
when we next meet …

it does not concern me, because
i intend to do the same to you.
in fact, it may happen before
we even leave the airport.

it does not concern me
because …
i am just going to fuck you.

no matter what —
je vais juste t’enculer …

let’s be proper about it:

vous comprenez ?
pouvez-vous sentir la tension …
le sexe ?

how do you like it?

how do you like it?


there is only one tongue that excites me
more than your tongue …
yes, my own tongue licking,
slime and spittle
all over your body.
like a predator of the night,
i will soon conquer you
and render your primary defences
quite useless.
you will beg me
to possess you.

kiss me, mother fucker.

embrasse ma fleur …
maintenant !


monsieur b.

Est-ce que t’es prêt … ou pas ?

Le moment de vérité ? C’était maintenant.

Sur tes genoux !

Please step back, Sir!
This man is first in the queue;
but you will get serviced.
And don’t come while watching.
I have something else
planned for you.

( mendier … bave … sucer … frottez votre trou du cul qui gratte ! )

ouahhh !

oui !

oui …

ouah …


Sorry Sir …
I must first take Monsieur B. again …
and again …
and again …


while i love rubber,
water sports,
and much more …
i only have one
dominant fetish,
and only one
driving passion:
oui, c’est toi.

c’est toi.

(cum to me soon.
i have something for you.)

As-tu faim ?

qu’est-ce que tu veux que je fasse ?

Gnarls 'n berries.
Gnarls ‘n berries.

je trébuche sur les sentiers battus.
et c’est dans ces moments-là que
je ressens un pincement de solitude.
le doux parfum d’abandon sexuel
est dans ces moments
surchargé d’une odeur.
oui, une odeur immonde
l’odeur de l’attachement …
l’échec de l’amour affectif
et le désir d’emprisonner ce désir.
dans nos fantasmes,
nous sommes toujours
forcés de porter des masques :
pour nous protéger
à la fois des racines noueuses
qui sont toujours
prêtes à piéger
le vagabond maladroit
qui pense qu’il est amoureux
d’un autre.
dans ces moments-là,
qu’elle est longue la marche,
c’est l’enfer existentiel.
dans ces moments-là,
je rêve d’une chose :
me perdre dans
le confort de l’amour
sans visage,
sans obligation.
et dans ces rêves,
nous sommes vraiment libres …
libre d’aimer.


voy a joderte;
y tu lo sabes muy bien.
(voy a joderte.)


no … no poetry tonight.
no romance,
no candlelight,
and no lube.
no persian carpet
under your knees
and no condom.
shut the fuck up
and look at me.
seduce me,
and worship me
with your eyes.
I did not give you
permission to fellate me.
not yet.
open your mouth and
receive my spit.
do your constraints hurt?
good! are you ready
for the second course?
it will be a warm meal …
a golden antipasto.
yes, I know what you want …
but it is teaching discipline
that truly turns me on.

now … show me those
hungry eyes and pouting lips.
open wide and gag …

you are beautiful.

you are mine — in this moment.


it usually starts
with the tongue …
ravishing …
deep inside
your man-cunt,
your flower,
your barricades.
it is just foreplay.
we both know
that my cock
will soon overwhelm
your man-pussy.

i like it when
you pretend to
have barriers
and scruples,
only to have them
whittled away
with each thrust
followed by a
of moans.

pretend to resist me!

the reward will be
that much greater.



je vais juste t’enculer …

there is no other way
out of this predicament.
the constant tumescence
is almost unmanageable.
everywhere I am,
everything I do –
I think about you …
and, well, you know what.

je vais juste t’enculer …

my biggest fear is that
my unyielding obsession
will become chronic,
and perhaps even terminal.
in the former case,
even having you as a live-in lover
would not be enough.
no, I need to feel your absence,
envision you from a distance
and hunt you down mercilessly …
again and again, forcing you
to submit to the inevitable.

je vais juste t’enculer …

I will stalk you even after death;
and we – two sultry glowing balls of light –
will dance a passionate bolero
with seductive pauses every now and then,
perhaps a bit of love-making and brazen flirting …
but, of course, most of all:
je vais juste t’enculer.

tu sais : je vais juste t’enculer …


Bonjour !

I’ve got something for you,
and I think you will like it.
It is something that I have been
waiting almost an eternity to give you.
Something that is now threatening
to burst out of its packaging.
Guess what it is!
Go ahead:
shake the box,
knead the fabric,
smell it …
It is both big and small,
hard and soft.
And it comes with
several companion tools,
all designed to maximize
your curiosity and pleasure.

I’ve got something for you.

I’ve got something for you.


Bonjour, Monsieur (mon beau mec):

Si vous voulez me baiser,
vous devriez le faire.

Si vous voulez me sucer,
vous devriez le faire.

Si vous voulez m’enculer,
vous devriez le faire.

Et puis …
je vais vous emmener dans un voyage
que vous n’oublierez jamais.

Vous beurrez vos tartines des deux côtés ?


” sucez-moi, vite ! ”

“qu’avez-vous dit ? what did you just say?
surely I have misunderstood …

ohhh, I see …
yes, I understand …
I … ”

” tais-toi imbécile ! ”

” mmmmmmmm….”


romance is cool,
but in its time and place.
right now I need you to
get it up.

get it up,
get it up,
get it up.

love in a sling is
not always lovemaking, but
sometimes a great fuck.


Er det noen poeng …

Hvorfor skrive om sex nå lenger?
Er det noen poeng?

Hvorfor se på porno, kinofilmer, tv eller reklamefilmer nå lenger?
Er det noen poeng?

Hvorfor kle seg ut på utfordrende måter lenger?
Er det noen poeng?

Joda, en gang i blant kommer man inn i “sonen” …
Og da — akkurat da — blir det et stort poeng.


coño … maricon …
which expletive deleted
turns you on the most?

tell me …
I need to know.

I will taunt you with it
until you shut me up,
and relinquish your unbridled
sex upon me — uncontrollably.

I am not really a “nasty pig” …
I am just a little naughty;
and perhaps very horny
… for you …
right here, and now.

¡hazlo, maricon! ¡hazlo bien!

urban flora uf023

Mon beau mec:

Je veux vous rendre enceint.
Je sais que c’est impossible,
mais quel plaisir d’essayer …
encore et encore.



Je ne peux vous promettre
que je serai capable
de garder mes mains, ma bouche
ni aucun membre,
ni le reste de mon corps
hors de votre portée –
quand nous nous rencontrerons
enfin à nouveau …
après toutes ces années;
après ces années de rêve,
où j’ai revécu, fantasmé
des moments qui auraient pu être …
Nous n’avons jamais vraiment été seuls
l’un envers l’autre, sauf dans
ces rêves et ces fantasmes.
Je vous ai fait mien tant de fois;
dans la perfection et l’imperfection.
Je ne peux éteindre le feu, l’attraction,
la fascination de la séduction, en dépit de
la fatalité que cela ne puisse être.
Je n’ai cure que vous ayez une relation
avec quelque autre partenaire,
épouse, mari, cocu … que ce soit.
Je sais que mon inextinguible, inassouvie,
passion pour l’aventure d’un moment ensemble
avec vous, peut être un moment éternel,
sans commencement ni fin.
Il y a tellement de choses à dire,
tant de façons de faire l’amour,
tant de silence partagé, à savourer …
et mes roses affamées de soleil
cette envie d’être fécondé par votre sperme.
Je brûle de redécouvrir le lagon bleu
voguant sur ma lente chaloupe,
pénétrant votre grotte majestueuse
avec cette fougue, cette envie irrésisitible
qui est pure poésie de la chair.

Vous savez bien à qui j’adresse cette supplique.

A vous, bien entendu …

(English version)

You know who I am writing to, Sir …
Yeah – to you.

I cannot promise you
that I will be capable
of keeping my hands, mouth
and other limbs and appendages
off of you – when we finally again meet …
after all of these years;
after years of dreaming, reliving and exaggerating
moments that could have been …
in other circumstances.
We have never really been alone
unto ourselves, except in my
dreams and fantasies.
I have had you so many times;
in perfection and imperfect perfection.
I cannot extinguish the fire, the attraction,
the fascination of seduction in spite of
the possible fatality of ultimate attainment.
I no longer care if you have a relationship
with another partner, wife, husband, cuckold …
I only know my ever-burning – yet unfulfilled —
passion for a moment’s adventure together
with you; perhaps an eternal moment,
without beginning or ending.
There is so much to talk about, so many
ways to make love, so much shared silence
to savor … and my sun-hungry roses
crave fertilization by your semen.
And I – I hope to rediscover the blue lagoon
in my quiet rowboat, penetrating your
majestic grottos with the utmost painterly
and poetic indiscretion.

You know who I am writing to …
Yeah – to you.


Du må ikke ta feil …
Jeg trener ikke på grunn av narsisisstiske årsaker.
Mine store brystmuskler er ingen
De er puter –
et trygt sted for deg å hvile,
en gang i blant;
inni mellom kyss,
knulling og
Kos deg kjære.
Kos deg …

(English version)

Do not be mistaken …
I do not exercise for narcissistic reasons.
My large chest muscles are no
penis extension.
They are pillows –
a safe place for you to rest,
once in a while;
in between kisses,
fucking and
Enjoy yourself, my dear.
Enjoy …


El amor.
El sexo.
Las mentiras.
Y tal vez te encuentre
en mis sueños errantes.

(French version)

l’amour !
le sexe !
le mensonge !
Peut-être t’ai-je rencontré
dans l’errance de mes rêves.

adam ninja

ciel couvert, couleur crème
épais comme le yaourt,
qui me rappelle
toi … et moi …
et aussi …
tu sais quoi …

(English version)

creamy overcast skies,
thick as yoghurt,
remind me of
you … and me …
and …
well, you know …

So sweet
are your suggested promises.
My stranger.
My unobtainable
moment of passion.
You coax me;
you cast me aside.
We can only have each other
in our leap-frog dreams:
both out-of-sync and yet
totally — oh so totally …
in syncopation.
The relentless fantasy is more
than the sum of reality’s
individual parts.
I see you everywhere;
in the gait of strangers …
in my memories.
Beginning from the
waist down …
easing toward the toes
and then quickly
darting upwards
to a fleeting and
photographic flash
of your insignificant face.
My stranger.
My passion.
My stranger …
So sweet.

(French version)

Si douces
sont tes promesses suggérées.
Mon étranger.
Mon inaccessible
moment de passion.
Tu me cajoles ;
tu me rejettes.
Nous ne pouvons
nous posséder
que dans des rêves fugitifs :
tous deux si différents
si totalement autres
et pourtant …
si merveilleusement
en harmonie.
L’implacable fantasme
est plus que la somme
des parts de réalité.
Je te vois partout ;
dans les pas des étrangers …
dans mes souvenirs.
Glissant depuis la taille,
lentement, jusqu’aux orteils
puis, avec la violence d’un éclair
l’on remonte, tout en haut,
pour ensuite
découvrir ton visage
Mon étranger.
Ma passion.
Mon étranger …
Si doux.


i hear it all the time:
‘how much do you bench? …
what is your IQ? …
what is your annual salary? …
how many celebrities have you known in your lifetime? …
how many books have you published? …
are you really “bi”, or a half-closeted faggot? …
how big is your dick? …’

enough bullshit already!
let’s wrestle it down …
winner takes it all.

simply put:
you lose … you get fucked.


Insinuations lubriques murmurées
dans l’espace enfumé des bars
qui excitent les gonades
et font croire à des promesses
mots doux et traîtres à la fois.
Les effluves de corps en sueur
se mêlent aux parfums
des Grands Magasins
comme l’eau et l’huile,
le cuir et la soie –
éléments hétéroclites,
qui s’attirent cependant
comme par magnétisme.
Eh oui …
j’aime cette manière que tu as
de mentir en prenant des poses,
en attachant mes poignets et mon sexe ;
en me forçant à m’agenouiller ;
exigence d’une totale soumission.
Dans cet air étouffant, nous entamons
le ballet sensuel des flirts anonymes,
tu détournes ton regard ;
je plonge le mien dans mon cocktail,
tu commences alors à scruter,
lentement, mon torse et ma taille.
J’acquiesce en souriant, et toi
tu t’éloignes, car j’ai enfreint
les règles du jeu,
trop pressé de remplacer
mes fantasmes par la réalité,
invitant par là le danger.
Tu me regardes mais feins l’indifférence
et je m’en vais avec quelqu’un d’autre
deux heures plus tard.
Moi, épuisé,
la tête fourmillant d’images lubriques,
j’investis, écoeuré et rageur,
les entrailles d’un quidam.


Je veux un amant, un vrai …
et je le veux maintenant.
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Non pas comme ces mauviettes
qui ont parsemé ma jeunesse :
l’oncle qui m’avait convaincu que j’étais
une ‘tapette’, un ‘gogo bizarre’,
avant que je n’apprenne
ce qu’était la baise ;
et cet enfoiré qui m’a violé
dans la maison de sa mère — m’obligeant
à tenir ma langue de peur qu’elle ne se réveille
et appelle la police … pour me coffrer, ou pire.
Ou bien encore cette ‘folle’ sadomaso qui
possédait tout un attirail de jouets sexuels
et de godes en caoutchouc,
mais qui se fâcha lorsque je me mis à rire
parce qu’elle ne pouvait plus bander … normalement.
Je veux un amant, un vrai ;
qui puisse me sucer et m’enculer
et me prendre comme un ‘homme’.
Je veux un amant, un vrai … qui soit
tout ce qu’il dit être ; et qui s’en ficherait
que l’on apprenne qu’il aime un autre homme.
Je veux un amant, un vrai …
Comme Arthur Rimbaud … ou Jean Genet.
Et je le veux maintenant.


Las reglas más importantes
Con respecto a la vida
Nos fueron reveladas unos momentos
Antes del amanecer en
Una de las grandes avenidas
Que siempre están en discordia
Con la logica de las cosas útiles:
El vino joven ..
El sexo promiscuo ..
Las compras compulsivas
Y quizás .. el ir a la iglesia
En un día de trabajo.
Nos reconocemos en los
Sueños vivos capturados en
Las pinturas de Goya y El Bosco.

Y allí, bailamos nuestro último tango;
Lenta ..
Y religiosamente ….
Y huimos de la memoria exacta
A la sombra de nuestras


our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a sabre’s cutting edge.

(French version)

notre danse est un rituel ;
une obsession insensée
entre deux papillons de nuit
jouant avec le feu.
ni chaînes, ni fouet.
juste une attache …
et les douces conséquences
de la lame tranchante d’un sabre.

vigeland statue

the man of my dreams:
sweaty, reeking of hormones,

Summer heat

yeah …
i do have a soft side;
quiet moments
where i do not need
to get lost in your eyes
or your man-cunt …
prolonged seconds
where neither of us
needs to speak,
or choose intelligent
comments or
witticisms …
or struggle with
English or French
grammar and vocabulary.

yeah …
i do like to cuddle
sometimes …
or just hold hands
as we stare off
at the fjord, the sea,
the city street grid,
or into the woods.
those moments
are precious.
at those times
we live freely,
without promise
of commitment
to anything more
than that particular
moment itself.

yeah …

just — yeah …


nous qui enfreignons les limites
de la vie, de la santé
devons embrasser l’amour
et la passion
avec un esprit … révolutionnaire.

Luscious and sexy, No. 1

C’est bizarre !
This sudden
proclamation of lust —
quite out of nowhere.

C’est bizarre !
Pour moi aussi.

C’est bizarre !
But I am enjoying the ride …
sans jugement ou crainte.

C’est bizarre !
et si délicieux !


ahhhh !
la sensibilité française …
it’s not so very different from mine.
passion is but a game of chess —
of seduction, deceit and conquest.

i chase you until you conquer me!
ahhhh !

oui — ahhhh !


summer infatuations
are much like
roller-coaster rides:
up and down,
back and forth,
hot and cold,
with, perhaps,
butterfly kisses
hoping to become
baboonish rapes …
but most of all,
i cherish
our moments apart.
it is then that
my dreams
unceasing fantasies
and obsessions;
with dripping sweat
and anticipation.


i am zoning out …
your incessant,
nervous babbling
is making
my eyes glaze over.
i just want to
slap you,
then shake you
and say:
“shut up, and
kiss me — Fool!”
but i merely
fake a smile
and feign interest
in your idle jabbering …
while fingering
my package
from inside my
pants pocket.


i am allergic
to all your perfumes,
except the natural one
you keep attempting
to cover up.
i love it when
you start to
break out
into a sweat.
your hormones
scent the jungle
for miles around.
and i feverishly
swing from tree to tree,
in hot pursuit.


relax, my secret sex partner.
i have not crossed the line …
i have not fallen in love with you.
please, do not be so vain
as to mistake my passion
and my fantasies about you
to be anything other than
a nagging and insatiable
craving for the unachievable.
of course,
i know that you are
nothing like how i
have created you to be
in my mind.
and thus, my body —
ever blind to reality —
quite consciously
exploits loving rawness
with the perfect shadow
that precedes you the most:
like when you throw me
a quick glance when you
think i am not looking,
or when you nervously
laugh when i give
you a compliment that
we both know is exaggerated
and calculated to throw
you off your guard.
i make love to you often
in our shadows, but our
everyday parlance
consists largely of
strained flirtations
and rather wet dreams.
truly, it could never be
more perfect than this.


do not promise to
be with me forever.
and do not tell me that
our love will last an eternity.
rather, meet me fully —
in this moment —
and dance with me …
dance with me.


my arabian lover was “hot to trot”.
his alleged wife and kids
were no hindrance to our passion,
and neither was the fact that
he came from an affluent saudi family.
but religion dictated
that he must keep his eyes closed
while performing fellatio,
as seeing another man’s genitals
is considered “impure”.

go figure …

toalett på kampen nr. 2-2

so —
you thought you got my goat
when you and your cronies
shouted ‘sale pédé’ when
i looked in your direction
the day before yesterday?
ha! well —
i am not only a ‘sale pédé’,
but also a ‘nasty pig’ …
that’s right —
trash — looking for trash.
i picked up your scent
and you acknowledged mine.
our ‘gaydar’ works perfectly …
don’t you think?!!
now —
about the next time we meet:
leave your cheerleaders behind,
and be ready to assume the position.

my name?
‘ master’ or ‘sir’ will suffice …


and …
i am almost immune to your
whimpering and squealing.
it is background music …

and …
i continue to fuck you
quite hard —
all the while, rather oblivious
to your screams, contortions and gasps.
when your hysteria reaches a certain point
i stuff my jock strap into your mouth and
intensify my pillage of your quivering asshole.

and …
you beg for more, and more.
deeper, and harder.
at that moment,
i know that i am in love …
at least in this very instant.

and …
as your barricades tighten
one last time
before final surrender
i join in with
a haunting orgasmic
scream of my own.

then, shortly …
there is no more ‘and’;
only silence,
and sperm —


i want to ply you with
chilled chardonnay,
norwegian strawberries,
melon with prosciutto,
blue cheese on crackers,
swiss chocolates, and
i won’t have any myself.
i am content to watch you eat,
and listen to your small talk.
but most of all,
i will savour the drunkenness
i experience drowning in
your eyes, and in the overstuffed
pillows of your perfect lips.
though your lips beg to be
ravaged and violated,
in such moments as these,
a work of art
which is that exquisite
should only be admired
from a short distance.


chut !
ne parlez pas.
Écoutez les sons
de nos orgasmes –
qui se dissipent.

quiet !
ne bougez pas.
Sentez-vous les flots
de sueur
sur nos corps ?

quelle magie !
quel délice !
Et maintenant,
peut-on se parler
franchement ?

s’il te plaît,
ne m’abandonne pas.
Et nous prolongeons ce moment …
à l’infini.

Epic poetry by Adam Donaldson Powell, Part One: Greek myths in verse … designing woman, monster, men who do not know their limits, spirituality …



(Adam in Vai, Crete … before the world tourists found out about it.)


A synopsis – the Cretan myths in story form:
an interpretation by Adam Donaldson Powell.

Daedalus’ nephew, Talus, was sent to apprentice with him by his (Daedalus’) sister. Talus soon rivalled Daedalus as a craftsman and, after some time, Daedalus pushed Talus off the Acropolis in a fit of jealousy. Daedalus was tried for the murder of his nephew and was found guilty by the court of Areopagus. He then fled to Crete to escape his sentence of death.

King Minos of Crete received Daedalus as his master architect and Daedalus performed many feats of engineering and architecture at the king’s request. Queen Pasiphae, wife of Minos, befriended Daedalus, and soon confided to him that she knew of his secret history – including the fact that three important inventions that Daedalus attributed to himself (the saw, the geometrician’s compass, and the potter’s wheel) were actually inventions of his nephew Talus. Pasiphae then proceeded to blackmail Daedalus into helping her fulfill her fantasy of copulating with a magnificent beast named Asterion. Asterion was a champion bull presented to Minos by the sea god Poseidon. (Poseidon, enraged by Minos’ refusal to sacrifice the prize bull to him, had sought to punish the king by creating a sexual passion within Pasiphae for the animal.) At Pasiphae’s insistence, Daedalus constructed a wooden cow in which the queen could hide herself in order to gratify her passion for the beast. As a result, the queen conceived a son: half-son and half-bull, which came to be known as the Minotaur.

Minos was both outraged and shamed by the existence of the beast and eventually ordered Daedalus to construct an underground labyrinth in which to conceal and imprison it. The Minotaur was situated in the center of the maze of tunnels and corridors, and was fed humans (criminals, pirates, prisoners, the deformed, and the deranged) as its sole form of sustenance.

Shortly after the building of the labyrinth, news came from Athens that Androgeos, Minos’ son, had been ambushed and murdered while on his way to Thebes after winning all events in the Panathenic Games. As a result, Minos waged battle against and defeated Athens, thus delivering an especially cruel punishment: seven of the city’s young men and seven of its young women were to be sacrificed to the Minotaur each year. Theseus, son of King Aegeus of Athens (and offspring of Aegeus’ wife’s liaison with the god Poseidon), volunteered to be amongst those chosen for sacrifice to appease the anger of the common people of Athens, who were rioting over the exemption of royalty and the wealthy from inclusion amongst the victims (chosen by an arranged lottery). Distressed by his son’s imminent departure, King Aegeus requested of Theseus that, if he should escape and attempt to return to Athens safely, he alternate the color of his sail on the returning ship from black to white as a signal. According to Minoan law, all prisoners were to enter Crete unarmed, but should anyone manage to kill the Minotaur and escape alive, the sacrifice of Athenian youths would be ended.

On the return voyage to Crete, Minos attempted to rape the daughter of Alcathous, King of Megara, who had been taken hostage by Minos, and who also was the cousin of Theseus. Theseus intervened and elicited Minos’ anger. After calling each other “bastards”, each proved his own divine paternity – Minos by praying that his divine father (Zeus) send a thunderbolt from the skies, which he did; and Theseus by diving into the sea and recovering a gold ring that Minos had moments before seized from him and hurled into the watery depths. Poseidon, god of the sea and father to Theseus, handed his son the ring and Amphitrite (Poseidon’s consort) presented him with a golden crown which Theseus wore as he emerged from the water. Theseus then replaced the ring on his finger, to Minos’ astonishment.

Before disembarking the ship, Theseus prayed to Apollo and Aphrodite (god and goddess of love) for favor. The gods’ gift to Theseus was that Ariadne, Minos’ daughter, would fall in love with Theseus at first sight – giving him an insider’s advantage over Minos’ rule of terror.

As decreed by the gods, Ariadne soon expressed her love to Theseus who pretended to share her passion. Theseus told her that he would marry her and take her away from Crete were he able to escape the labyrinth and death by the Minotaur. Ariadne then consulted Daedalus and tricked him into telling her how a lost person might find his way out of the labyrinth. Daedalus told her that escape from the maze could be achieved by following a trail of thread fastened to the door at the entrance of the labyrinth. On the morning of his surrender to the Minotaur, Ariadne bestowed upon Theseus a clew of thread and a dagger.

Theseus, armed with thread and dagger, left his companions at the entrance of the maze and walked toward the center. He then killed the Minotaur and returned to the entrance, led by the thread. Ariadne released the prisoners and all fled to a waiting ship arranged for by the love-struck princess. Under cover of nightfall, Theseus and his fellow Athenians bore holes in the hulls of the anchored vessels of the royal fleet to prevent pursuit, and they sailed homeward to Athens. On the way, Theseus threw Ariadne overboard off the coast of the island of Naxos, and continued onward to take the hand of Aegle, daughter of Panopeus, in marriage.

When Minos discovered what had transpired, he imprisoned Daedalus and his son Icarus (Daedalus’ son by one of Minos’ slave-girls) in the labyrinth, expecting that both would perish in the maze, which would soon flood with the rest of the palace as a result of the approaching tidals waves caused by an immense volcanic eruption on Santorini (then called Atlantis). All at the Royal Palace of Gnossos fled southward toward the summer palace at Festos, and deserted Daedalus and Icarus to die in the labyrinth.

Daedalus used wax and feathers to make wings with which to fly, and father and son escaped the labyrinth. Daedalus warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun as the heat would melt the wax, and not to fly too close to the sea because the sea-spray would weigh down the feathers. They flew northwesterly past the islands of Paros, Delos and Samos, but when they were between the Sporades Islands and the Ionian Coast of Asia Minor, Icarus foolishly flew too high and his waxen wings melted. He plunged headlong into the sea and drowned. Daedalus landed on a nearby island, retrieved his son’s body from the waters and buried him. In memoriam, he named the island “Ikaros”, after his son.

Daedalus then flew on to Sicily and took refuge in the court of Cocalus, the Sicanian king of Camicus. By this time, Mycenaen soldiers had burned and sacked the remains of the Minoan palaces at Gnossos, Festos, Aghia Triada, Malia and Zagros, which had already been all but ruined by the sweeping tidal waves caused by the cataclysmic eruption on Atlantis.

Minos, who had escaped with some thirty men, vowed revenge upon the Mycenaens and set out in search of Daedalus, the one man who could help him maneuver a comeback. Minos traced Daedalus by asking all the rulers of the West how to thread a spiral seashell, knowing that only Daedalus, who had solved the riddle of the labyrinth, could possibly know the answer. Daedalus, when presented with this conundrum by Cocalus, bore a hole in the top of a spiral seashell and harnessed the thread to an ant, which proceeded to weave its way through the shell, coming out through the hole at the other end.

When King Cocalus then returned the threaded seashell to Minos, Minos demanded the surrender of Daedalus. After Cocalus’ refusal to comply, Minos and his son besieged the underprotected city and took one of Cocalus’ daughters captive in ransom for Daedalus. Cocalus then pretended to consent to the relinquishing of Daedalus, and invited Minos to be the guest of honor at a royal feast – Sicilian-style. He also offered the services of his own daughters to assist Minos with the traditional ceremonial bath before the feast. Daedalus, however, had equipped the baths with overhead pipes through which torrents of boiling water were passed, and Minos was scalded to death. Minos’ men, well plied with wine, food and slave-girls, each had his eyes put out and all were set out to sea on a ship with the body of their dead king. On the helm was painted the crude inscription: “Ship of Fools”.

Daedalus, homesick for Athens and despondent over his wayward life, succumbed to severe melancholia and committed suicide on the sacred Isle of Delos.


VERSE: an epic reconstruction of the Cretan myths in four acts.



In the creative tradition
Of cosmic transformation,
The nascence of cognitive evolution
Is precipitated by the yearning of
The soul for individual expression
Through a symbiotic pact between
Science and aspiration.
The juxtaposition of competing
Personal realities within the
Everchanging ethos necessarily evokes
The strategic separation of conscience
And morality within those in pursuit
Of that which makes a legend most.


Thus the universe created
A typology of deities
To enforce the laws of love
And nature, unknowing that
Human passion for omnipotence
Would sublimate religion
To the glory of invention.
But, for every inspiration
Of genius there is an
Accompanying consequence of
Ignorance; and so it is that
He who constructs a labyrinth
Must invariably suffer confinement
Within the limits of karmic mortality.


Quiet rage kindled by the
Foolish boasting of youth
Provokes restless itching palms
To violent fantasy directed at
The tender ivory pedestal of
Flesh and muscle precariously
Supporting the rose-petal cheeks
And fawn-like eyes of Talus.
The graceful movement of these
Floating, detached hands through
Undefined space and time betrays
The choreography of a nightmare
Unfolding in slow motion;
Ending only when the terrified
Scream of the victim is echoed
By that of the sweating dreamer
And consciousness is restored
Once again.


Under cover of night,
The howling of wild dogs and jackals
Forewarns the final waning of the moon
As oily teardrops anoint the marble temple
With glistening treachery.
And in the columnar shadows lurk
The memories of two drunken men,
Pervading silence and open spaces with
Boisterous song and laughter.
The advent of dawn reveals the tearful
Soliloquy of Daedalus, who has succumbed
To the genius of temptation:
“It’s so easy to take offense
when one is inebriated ….
Suddenly, everything that has
Ever hurt or angered you
Flashes before your eyes in
Vivid cinematic replay,
And before you know it you’re
Struggling for your very life
On the precipice of integrity.
You see, Talus —
I had no alternative but
To do what I did …
The pain is that it was
So bloody easy.”


Disguised as an unfortunate beggar,
The accused Daedalus loses himself
In a crowded bazaar while awaiting the
Hour of his escape from Athenian justice.
In his cognizant, scientific mind the
Survival of genius irrefutably supersedes
The fallacy of morality and reason
Adjudicated by social acceptability and custom.
And yet, his self-righteous sense of
Confidence and courage are persistently tempered
By the nagging, remote possibility that
He may, in fact, be wrong.


Rising above the Valley of the Mysteries,
Atop the hill known as “tou tselebe he kephala”,
Stood the impenetrable and resplendent palace
Of the royal court of Minos.
The photographic reflection of the setting sun
Upon the outer walls of gypsum and lime plaster
Gave the massive structure a brilliant golden sheen,
At once conveying divine favor and prosperity.
And as the stalwart stand of conifers secluding
The fortress from seaward view bowed gracefully
In the warm Cretan breeze, the weary Daedalus
Resumed his slow approach to the north gate
With a muddled sense of hope and trepidation.


Gathering dark storm clouds
Over the southern portion
Of the Aegean Sea signal
The rising anger of the almighty
Earthshaker Poseidon.
The shroud of fear incited
By this ominous omen stirs
Panic-stricken birds and livestock
Seeking refuge through flight.
Then, with a sudden lash of
Thunder and electricity, the
Entire Cretan sky becomes
Illuminated with the frightening
Apparition of the laughing god —
Raising his trident in vengeful


Feeling like the nigger of the world,
The misogamistic Pasiphae maintains
Self-imposed exile in queenly splendor
Devoid of men and the pain they elicit.
Her god-given lust is neither
Passionate or emotional, for its
Sole motive is womanly revenge
Through bitterness and degradation.


On the western grasslands
Appending the palace at Gnossos,
The magnificent Asterion
Snorts and kicks at
Loosened pasture in defiance
Of captivity and civilization.
Amongst the numerous onlookers
Admiring him from safe distance
Is one designing woman,
Who alone can compromise
His nature-given invincibility
Through deceit and manipulation.
Raising his head from the fodder
Of self-involvement, the princely bull
Inadvertently glances at the
Staring huntress and quickly turns
Away in sympathetic embarrassment for
Human indiscretion and humiliation.


Confronted with exposure
And certain ruin,
The distraught Daedalus
Reluctantly relinquishes
Allegiance and reason
To the ruthless web
Of hateful nymphomania.
The firey threats of
The desperate queen are
Reinforced by the sadness
Of her eyes, which
Melt the misogyny of
Her accomplice into
Sympathetic submission.
Now joined by the
Mutual exigency for
Challenge and survival,
They endeavor to plot
The seduction of Asterion.



Playing on his
Almost homo sapien instincts,
Pasiphae pursues the beast
With malignant love and deception.
The creature,
Though unstirred by the
Beauty of her dark curls,
Flawless skin and painted eyes,
Is completely transformed
In disposition by
The bovine facade
Of his own illusion.
And somewhere between
Ingenuity and chauvinism,
The priestess and the beast
Unite fatefully;
Each satiated by his own
Conquering phantasy.


The priestess Pasiphae lay stretched across the
Stone dais as a prisoner of sacrifice;
Her hands and feet helplessly pinioned by fear
To four-pillar bedposts in surrender to
The fruits of indulgence.
Lightning-like images of horror flash
In vibrant colors against the darkness
Of the night until a momentary calm
Haltingly and mercilessly imbeds upon her
Drunken consciousness one final vision ….
This vision extinguishes all candles
Except for one, and that lone flame
Illuminates the countenance of Adrastea,
The Goddess of Darkness …
And Death.
From the onslaught of delirium come
Machinations of rape and betrayal in
Rapid succession, spattering the
Whiteness of creation with blood
Of bluish-black and crimson.
The frenzy of violent orgasm overtakes
Her temple, rendering the walls of her
Vagina to tremble as the batterings
Of the wild sea Poseidon rage
Against her malleable shore.
Suddenly, the screams of one thousand
Sirens decry the final exodus of the
Monstrous incubus, and within the
Silence that ensues a new Hell is borne
In the shape of the Minotaur.


Glaring with disgust and rage
At the repulsive newborn,
The disgraced monarch
Spat and pointed a
Contemptuous finger at
His unfaithful concubine;
Condemning her to a
Sentence of motherhood.
And the attending midwife
Looked away in shame
While the terrified queen
Sobbed in fear and confusion
At the cruel consequence
Of divine possession.


The curious citizens of Gnossos
Looked on with shuddering relief
As ten palace guards dragged
The struggling Minotaur through
The intricate structure of
Interconnecting passages to his
Barren chamber of confinement.


Standing amid the smouldering remains
Of defeat and destruction was the
Commanding chief of the Royal Minoan Army.
The mandate he delivered to the dreading
Audience conveyed the barbarous and
Bizarre vengeance of King Minos
For the murder of his son:
“From this day … and each year henceforth,
seven of your young men and seven of
your young women will be sacrificed to
the Beast upon selection by lottery.”


Above the rancorous protests
From the dissenting crowd
Was heard the martyring
Proclamation of Theseus —
In courageous appeasement.
A resounding cheer
Of victory and approval
Roared across the square
As the bewildered king
Stared at his son in
Shock and disbelief.
In the ensuing moments came
The supportive commitment
Of thirteen men and women;
Volunteering in the heroic
Spirit of Athens.


Masking his sorrow
With kingly decorum,
The despondent Aegeus
Grieves the departure
Of his only son
With tacit consternation.
Upon the painful advent
Of final embrace
The swollen eyes of
Both men rain a
Sprinkling of teardrops
In bidding of courage
And divine favor.
Biting his upper lip
In defense from effusion,
The young prince turns and
Embarks the waiting ship
Without once looking back.


Purity of white fleshes outward
With the subtlety of wind chimes
Swaying lithely in the seabreeze …
Sublime fragrances of jasmine and
Virginity meld unwillingly
With sweat and fear
Engendered by threat of violation …
The scent of victimization
Only encourages animal passion and
Further increases the value of the prize …
Beauty – inviting – passion —
Creating – revulsion – increasing —
Attraction – begetting – fear —
Maximizing – passion …
Contorted faces and war-drum heartbeats
Distort humanity as minds are
Dismembered by occlusion …
Peace cannot prevail until
A victor is crowned and
Reintegration is impossible until
Silence shreds its hostility.


In a concerted attempt at
Proving his divine paternity,
Minos closed his eyes and
Raised his trembling arms
Toward the realm of Zeus
Until the mounting force of
Concentration released a
Deafening bolt of thunder to
Burst forth from the heavens
And puncture the pustule
Of scepticism.


Tension was keen amongst the spectators
As all anxiously awaited the questionable
Resurgence of Theseus from the aqueous depths.
But doubt soon turned to astonishment as the
Beloved son of Poseiden defiantly resurfaced
Onto the starboard deck sporting a wry smile,
A golden ring and a gilded wreath of lilies
Bequeathed him by the fair mermaid Amphitrite.



Lulled by the gentle
Cradling of the waves
And the soft shimmer of
The early morning moon,
The sleeping ship coasts
Upon the foamy crests
In dreamy quietude.
The insouciant reverie
Is dutifully maintained
By the mesmerizing
Tonalities and rhythms
Of creaking planks
And ocean spray.
And keeping sole watch over
Survival and expectation
Are a lunching rodent
And the insomnious Theseus,
Kneeling in silent supplication
To the celestial guardians
Of love and beauty.


Today, Mother Goddess,
I fear that I fell quite foolishly
In love with an extraordinary new
Slave-attendant bearing wine.
No sooner did I take but one sip
Than the resplendent face of Theseus
Captivated both vision and dreams.
I swam in the cool underwater grottos
Reflected in his emerald eyes,
And basked in the dawning borne
Of his sweet parting lips until
The brightness of his celestial smile
Broke my reverie and I found myself
Scampering about on my hands and knees,
Retrieving my fallen cup and
Blotting the runaway wine from
His perfect feet, while stammering:
“I’m terribly sorry ….
I thought you were someone else.”


Armed with clew of thread, dagger and
An invincible strength of purpose,
Theseus of Athens stealthily winds
His way through the maze of dark
Corridors cluttered with hair,
Excrement and mortal bones in search
Of the beast known as the Minotaur.
Verily, the Mother Goddess shakes
Her head in disapproval and shame,
For beasts and the imperfectly-formed
Have a special place amongst the
Beloved of her Kingdom.


Writhing and moaning
With human-like expression,
The innocent offspring
Of passion and lust
Succumbs to non-existence
Without knowing why —
Sacrificing his presumptuous
Right-to-life in deference
To the overriding popularity
Of physical beauty
And social convention.
And in his confusion of
Pity, revulsion and respect,
The valiant young Theseus
Replaces the blood-soaked
Dagger into its sheath and
Closes the distended eyelids of
His disabled opponent in combat.


Stealing through secret passageways
Past sleeping palace guards,
Bare-breasted Ariadne leads Theseus
And the thirteen to safety
With feminine will and insight.
Her pride of success is tarnished
By the inexplicably strange feeling
That she is seeing her past and
Intended future for both
The first and last time.
As she glances back briefly
Upon the impenetrable dormant fortress,
A vagabond tear stains the kohl
Outlining her eyes and she quickly
Turns to resume her traitorous mission
Into the betraying clutches of loneliness
Known only to women who bleed for love.


With the passing
Of a single cloud
Over the persistent sun,
The image of a victim of
Psychological rape is
Eternally engraved upon
The chronicles of history —
As tearing out her hair with
Contorted face and gaping mouth;
And the incessant wailing of
Passionate desperation yields
To rage as the near-drowned
Nymph crawls from sea to land
In a half-hearted attempt
At survival.


The appearance of the Port of Pireaus
On the horizon transforms mirage into reality
As the vagabond ship rocks steadily between
The waves on the 27th day of summer.
Burning rays of sunlight fuel the fervor
Of moving muscles on bare-backed men
Hoisting ropes and alternating sails
From black to white, thus signalling
Their triumphant return from the
Grasp of death into the bosom of victory.
And at the helm stands the young hero Theseus,
Staring without seeing and smiling with
Non-expression: his concentration is
Distracted by the solitary image of a
Young woman in love, screaming his name
In vain.


Sudden panic on the island of Atlantis
Is precipitated by intestinal gurgling
Within the volcanic cone of Mount Thira.
The impending cataclysm evokes terror
And fear amongst priests and sybarites alike
As the end of the world becomes self-evident.
In a final gesture of prayer and submission,
The doomed hostages of angry gods and nature
Kneel before images of the Great Mother
With fists to brow while the riotous movement
Of bubbling lava and gases escalates into
A hysterical danse macabre to-the-sea as
The earth is purged of decadent overindulgence.


Father and son fly high above the
Spray of the sea in an attempt
To escape fatidic injustice through
Science and romanticism.
The synchronous flutter of waxen wings
On these daring charlatan-birds denotes
An intentional defiance of nature,
Punishable by death or evolution.
And so it is, with destined irony,
That the triumphant exhilaration at
Conquering the elements is necessarily
Moderated by mourning and sadness
At the realization that life as known
Can never be the same again.


…. And the scribe of the gods
impartially observes for the
annals of history:
“Daedalus looks on with helplessness
and horror as the youth is pulled
into the blue-green depths and
consumed by the jowls of destiny.”



Icarus, my son —
In all honesty I guess we were
Always walking on the edge.
Suspended tautly between highs
And lows, we feared mediocrity
More than imbalance.
For us, challenge was but
The means of attaining individuality;
A space unto ourselves and
Forever out of reach of
Those who dreamed but
Never dared to risk.
We soared like eagles and
We fed on desires that
Sting the heart, yet
We neither gave nor received
Beyond our passion for
Excellence through solitude.
And now that I have witnessed
The birth of my conscience,
There remains no other recourse
Than to re-invest myself in
The ongoing saga which is the
Phenomenon of life.
Heretofore, I’d always thought
That phenomenon is emptiness;
But having now lost all
That has been dear to me —
I realize that emptiness
Is a kind of phenomenon.


Leading the procession of
Thirty haggard mercenaries in
Tattered finery was a short,
Dark-complexioned man with
Dirty black curls and a
Glint of twilight and
Magic in his eyes.
The demeanor of this
Broken-down gypsy with
Affectations of pomposity
And courtly grandeur incited
Both laughter and suspicion
Amongst the curious Sicanians.
Yet – his fixed smile and
Piercing gaze betrayed nothing
But charm as he extended his
Palm holding a simple spiral
Seashell, and said:
“I’ll bet YOU can solve this riddle!??”


King Cocalus was taken by surprise
In the twenty-fourth hour when
Minos and his band of thirty
Burst into the royal bedchamber
Armed with torches, swords and
A dagger positioned against the neck
Of the fair princess of Camicus,
Held in ransom for he who
Solved the riddle.
Looking into his frightened daughter’s eyes
Cocalus knew at once that the
First battle had been lost but
Conceded with a smile as his
Bitter mind was already scheming
At a plan for final victory.


In an expression of growing impatience,
The disapproving gods comment with a sigh:
“Must we be continually aggravated
by these shadows of a man
of stature and consequence,
now diminished into comic parody
by desperation and delusion?
The truth is that no one
really cares about a star
that has lost its shine ..
A king without a kingdom is
either a pirate or a buffoon.”


The slow dripping of water
Upon blistered skin and flesh
Stages the final element of torture
For the deposed king as each
Drop threatens to erode more
Permanently all hope for
Recovery and revenge.
Melodic shrieks of agony
Maintain symphonic balance
Against the rhythmic trickling,
Indicative of the ironic horror
Endemic to nature’s inevitable
Triumph over civilization
And artificiality.
Perhaps the greatest severity
Is the cruelty of mortality;
For chronology minimizes
Individual humanity with
Each passing moment.


It shatters me to see you
Lying there so helplessly;
Playing the ‘waiting game’
Without judgment or choice.
Fearing life now more than death,
You transcend the impatience of desire
Through constancy of pain and
Resignation to the inevitable.
In a singular gesture of compassion,
Your pale lips force a smile
Which silences the teardrop
Skidding down my face; and
Momentarily I turn away inside myself,
Embarrassed by my own self-indulgence.
Still smiling,
You take me by the hand and
Squeeze a bit of your precious life
Into mine, as if to say:
“I know … I know …
(we all live on borrowed time).”


Guided by the constellations
On a voyage to nowhere,
The shattered wealth of the
Heroic age is now overshadowed
By madness.
All blood runs cold
On this ship of fools;
And yet, the vibrant calm of
Heavens and sea remains undisturbed
By the cacophonous wails and
Shrieks of agonized men
And impatient birds of prey.
Verily, the hand of Fate
Is severe with those
Who are slow to acquiesce;
For death without release
Is Hades itself.


Beatific phantom choirs of deceased souls
Sing blood-curdling hymns of praise
In honor of Daedalus, who has plunged a
Silver dagger into his own heart
With poetic indifference.
The shrill tonalities of their electrifying
Strains split open the Mount of Artemis
With seismic precision, thus allowing
The corpse to be consumed within the
10-foot crevice without indulgence.
As the rapidly approaching darkness expunges
Temporal expression of irrationality,
Gentle warm breezes over the sacred
Isle of Delos cradle existence
Once again to primal order.


Situated on a hill overlooking
The ruined temple at Delos
Lay a mound of earth covered
With herbs and wildflowers.
Anonymity and olive trees
Shield the unmarked grave
From further disturbance
By inquiry over time.
From the beach below one
Can sometimes visualize
The crescent moon posing
As luminous horns of consecration
Hovering above the burial site —
A symbol of both the old religion
And infinity.
And reflected in the perfect
Scheme of constellations is
The haunting warning of an
Ingenious soul that will
Never rest:
“Ariston metron” …. (moderation is best) ….


The legacy of Daedalus
Is a lesson in pathetic empiricism —
The liability to suffer is a concept
Borne through the fallacy of genius.
Whether he existed beyond the realms
Of mythology and imagination is
Irrelevant; through him mankind has
Inherited the irresistible urge for
Pathos through technology.
It has long been decreed by the Fates
That as Atlantis declined, so shall
Crete … and Assyria … and
Babylonia … and Egypt … and
Macedonia … and Rome … and ….
The carnage is reflected incessantly
Through this hall of mirrors that
We call history, for behind every
Great lust for significance lurks
A Daedalus.



Each Spring,
Appolonian tears of lamentation
Collect as sanguine dewdrops
Upon the verdant slopes of Olympus.
Nurtured by the glory of the elements,
The resplendent rebirth of Hyakinthos
Is made manifest throughout the four quarters
In carillons of sapphire blossoms.
The petals of these bell towers
Cense the air sublime with
The Spirit of the Great Mother
And the legend of creation.
In memoriam, the fugitive solar discus
Lay forever fixed in the heavens
As a symbol of love made Divine
Through resurrection.


Behold! For within the Great Rite
Lay the mystery of the chalice;
Swept upwards upon the wings of
Divine love and victory,
We consume the Spirit
And re-unite with the Source.
Verily – I am Rhea,
I am the Minotaur …
I am the Chalice.


Seated before the altar
At the Minoan Palace of Gnossos,
I drink thirstily from
The chalice of Divine Essence.
The intoxication I attain
From the nectar of sacrifice
Tightly binds the
Scrotum of my devotion,
And demands unconditional surrender.
As the relentless frenzy
Of my intoxication
Reaches an orgiastic climax,
I both consume and
Give birth to myself
In generous libation


On the twelfth day of Bacchion,
The god of magical grace and rapture
Is summoned from the sea
By those willing to suffer to learn.
All hearts on Mount Parnassus are inflamed
By the scent of burning ivy and vine
As the nymphs of Nysa imbibe of the
Ecstasy of madness and destruction.
“Come to us, Thyonidas,
Beloved of bacchantes and panthers …
Join us, O nocturnal one,
In our sacred rites.”
The frenzy at the Festival of Thyia
Is soon stilled by the prophetic Great Whispering
And the miracle of wine,
Which herald the coming of Lord Dionysus.
Dripping with libations of honey and bloody flesh,
The sated god smiles,
For life force itself is borne
In the womb of pleasure and pain.


Psyche and Phantasy play artfully
At suggestion and intrigue;
Their lovemaking weaves miracles
Through the fabric of dreams.
There, in the Valley of Styx,
Endings mute into beginnings
Like swirls of blue-grey smoke
Creeping toward alabaster palaces
In primordial consciousness.
And soon, the fiery ashes of
One zillion charred impulses
Rain heavily upon furrows
Of creativity, cultivating
Retrospect with expectation.

Copyright Adam Donaldson Powell (excerpted from his book “Collected poems and stories”, 2005). Photographs by Adam Donaldson Powell.