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The Warlock of Love

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Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Introductory Pages

THE WARLOCK
OF LOVE
by
MARC BOLAN

Published by
LUPUS MUSIC

Copyright © Marc Bolan
1969

Printed in Great Britain by Lewis Reprints Limited
The Brown Knight & Truscott Group
London and Tonbridge

DEDICATED
TO THE WOODS OF
KNOWLEDGE

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way
of trade, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise disposed of with-
out the publisher’s consent in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 4 of the Original Volume

The first page on which a poem appeared in this book was numbered 4.

PREFACE

We hide behind the masks of the Orient,
because the sullen lumbering shapes of
the western world strike fear and terror
into our limbs, and all is ungrown.
Legends we long for and legends there
are in the east of our heads.
So perchance Gods dwell unseen in the
east of the world.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 5 of the Original Volume

The breeze from the hill journeyed through his
snowy hair like an omen.
His cloak of caution, threadbare and patterned, fell
to the moorland mire like a lamented autumn leaf.
He dribbled his thoughts like a mastiff.
“If only,” he muttered, uttering words of poetry in
magical wordways, causing violent upheavals in the
animal homesteads within earshot of his daggered lips.
The questical day had held all the promise of an artist,
but with the grey horseless cloud of the autumn
afternoon all hope of starfields revealed was lost, as
a pebble of love in the black scorched deserts of
civilisation.
As a last hermetic gesture, with the masts of the
day spent, the gaunt man, pure of skin but soiled
of soul, prepared his parchment scroll and crouched
like a beggar began the last task of his day — an
etching of a child, blue skinned and shapen like a
fowl of the skies, with eyes so true and hallowed
that the artition wept as he drew, and already the
quest was begun.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 6 of the Original Volume

Proud browed he sat with his pekinese hat
Basked in the sun of the musical one.
A rope for wise men held his tail all dapper.
He jostled the pawn of pearl in his ever growing hands,
And with his handsome wand he chirped scholarly
Abroad the desolate land.
And a blanket of perfumed tailors sewed the skirts of the
Earth
In ever decreasing cycles.
One for Exaviar and the other for Ono the waterman.
The salt seeker, the carp-carved kinglett of Oceantanicas
Fin-browed.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 7 of the Original Volume

Yon ravelling Mage,
crisp sunseanian Sage
deep acrest a mass,
a hillock of woven ash.
Tarragon seed whim is a coin
in the swim of your skin.
One pleasant fin,
O for such rippled skin,
akin to a far star,
deep abreasted like a raft,
a lantern beam cathedral
in the dungeons of my cask.
And a ship from Paladinya
yes, a pavilion of Pallacian mind,
a tower awned with lighting,
a swans wing and a dipped ring
and you swimming like my mountain,
the delved crescents of your breast
of true julip of Dodona
a league skimmed proper above the rest.
O, Our nest could hold silk stars
a taffetian nation, an elven rope,
a scarlet kerchief wept and laiden
like the galley of dead uncles’ boat.
And a brace of shining finches,
sleek necks climbing towards our sky,
four driving jewelled rivers and unmapped
oceans,
just Dodona,
a whole zinc of finches,
you and I.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 8 of the Original Volume

Camellia of the willow weep
Prancing up the hilly steep
Your evening ringlets wiggling long
All fluted
Twirling in the whirling wind of wincing summer.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 9 of the Original Volume

Sycamore of sorrow, pray I’m swallowed
in the swell of your yelling leafy breast.
My crippled bended chest is shamed
through flaming crowsfeet, soaring nouns
of norse confessions,
dark earth gremlins, rootlegged, hobbling
in the cryptess of my turned wound.
Ill-famed fair prince, steal my lightning,
stake me with steel, for my haughtiness.
Straddle my storm head with your abyss shroud.
Call me harlot.
Call me wormywordler.
Everso, but out loud.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 10 of the Original Volume

The winter witch with her charts and fate
has half a life, but no more.
The summer saviour has a torso of gold
but a heart burnt and timefearing.
My love is a season unto herself.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 11 of the Original Volume

To have and have not is all that I’ve got
like a count with a purse full of princes.
A bird on the wind of a pleasant stream
from the brook of the garden of senses.
And the count lived like a count, for he was
But the widow lived like a widow, and was not.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 12 of the Original Volume

Birdling suckled on the tongue of the wiseone
who has tutored you in meadows, learned laughter
looks he bequested you. As a child you storked
on one bird of thought, but his classic hair
streaming knowledge, where like a muse it would wash
you.
And now as a suitor, he courts you, clasped
in the rug of his love like a reindeer.
For his winding mind knows the quarrying folly of
untamed youth. Like a new stream, prey of the sun,
a child in the summer of the drought. Yet she
dotes on his old brow, pressed hot lips on the
hearts of his toes, recites in moon flooded
groves the prose of his choice. Like a voice,
she travels in love.
Like a lover, all is well.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 13 of the Original Volume

The closet eye.
Dove skims the sky.
A silver penance,
a wrong wicked and shorn
assulted his majesty exalted.
My rams foot hexagonals on,
and O for the ice king a twitter in the storm.
The eloquence of blue juliped tents
and a crown of dark swansdown.
O Elaina, child soothsayer,
cheetah sleeper,
laden legs like a god —
a fools everglade like the seasons slave,
and your quince everlasting horn-lamp
made of wheat
at your tiny rivered feet.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 14 of the Original Volume

Tall as the truth the creature coughed in the clouds,
feeding on mountain tips and the rare winged eagle lords
that journeyed higher than the memory of man. It’s claw,
caked in mist and wishes, ripped at a pillar of fear
masoned long ago by terrible forgotten Titans, to
prevent the dreams of man from floating in the valleys
of the diamond.
It’s eyes, like women and sand, shifted ever searching
for the perilous horn of plenty. A foolish colossus
it looked, ragged and unworshipped. Solitary on the
roof of the world, a remaining nightmare in a plateau
of fair thought.
It moaned and clumsily spewed spells of fear on the
storm stallions grazing in the temple of pearls. And
the years danced on. And all that moves returns to
stone, eventually.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 15 of the Original Volume

The vanquished Sun
Is like the withered yolk
Of a weathered egg.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 16 of the Original Volume

I crave a slave
A carrion man
All rigid like a tearfull elm
I crave for me my rhyming man
All horsey and Voltaire
With a river in his hair
And a forelock bright as brass
In the dancing steep emotion of his glance
A travelled Duke of skyvieled sickness
With the horn of Ishmal gravelled in his plotting hand
Grand, grand, grand O prawn of time
One wish to soothe me
One spake to rhyme.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 17 of the Original Volume

A star of youth was spawned one day
Born on the horses of the sleigh.
In a green of elm, the sky, outstretched
spake, ‘Drink deep O twinkler in my lake’.
For a wish you’ll be burdened to coronet
on your dome, like a will o’ the wisp all
a tender, you’ll surrender in the deep
foamy kitchens of the muse and one word
they will say and like a pelican and yellow
amethyst they bless long your stay in
the abbey blue, but in glittered hue you wept
for summers’ limbs upon the pleasant turf and
your shields of ice in the chilly times,
creamed in grey wolfs’ hair, you stride your
windy stair, you’ll miss no cathedral bed,
for you dote on the treasure in the chest of
your head.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 18 of the Original Volume

With the girdle of life
unadorned on my brow
my eye’s appetite is relieved
with starry sights and mellow wonders.
Yet with a girdle mammoth in starfields
and moontrees
my heart’s eye is dull and my soul
ever hungry.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 19 of the Original Volume

The Fluted Floors of Dagamoor

The fluted floors of Dagamoor.
A sovereign schemed and prismed,
a sly extended mushroomed hand
dead from the wars of Faragadan.
The ground a muted mat of twigs,
that sing upon clouds,
grand canyonised through lack of faith
its chests of rare curiosity.
A medallion head in casted lead
brought from the mines of Hadrian,
by a lame young man with a stammering lip
and a hip which swung with leprosy.
Woe, his falling brow ceased to shimmer at least,
but his deep earth loves
were for cold earthmined stone.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 20 of the Original Volume

The silver clothen Saracen and the pheasant and the oriole
sailed on sandel feet in the dagger of the Dagyor heat,
to a rippling shore where one ivory core of apple,
nibbled and spelled upon, lay.
The dark fleshed lord bowed his silk embroidered caplett
lower than the Earth, deeper curved than the bend of
years.
And with fingers oiled and spiked, the old fruit he
clutched. And his purple sound serpent mumbled blacklore
to appease all thats lurking and hidden.
And then the quake came, like a ship it rode the vast of
light.
The Saracen prince, his finery finished, sunk — burrowed
like a mole with the night madness. The core bore wings
and it’s strong whiteness shimmered long.
Then O the wind it ate an unsaddleable horse with wings
of such girth as to dwarf the eagle lord. And the steed
steered the stars and bade the quaking birds to follow.
And on mounting the wind they too grew like young
oaks,
flew like laughing words and on their starkest flight
at a height immense, they reached the waters of the world
and ploughed like farmers the waves of power.
And all creatures welcomed them and adorned them with
flowers of faith.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 21 of the Original Volume

A Baul so small
His hooded eye a night hawk
Swooping over my parched and weary limbs
The gardens of my five-toed stalking stilts
Are dried like the fruit of the hag.
His bell of topaz
Was pirouetted upon with whirls of distant history
And the wonderous wisdom of his tungstone forefathers.
In just one of the shaded gulleys of his ravining cheek,
Sleek and unblemished, were hung bold enfolding
raiments of scroll.
A scribbled etching of the crystallined phail
Containing my first tear river given in love.
Shadowed in the mansions of dusk
The wanderer, clad in the cloak of the hills,
Mounted his shimmering pony and threw me a dagger,
A tableaux of a manger quill painted on the hilt,
And set in the bosom of the blade
A tiny outstreched hand
All small and topaz.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 22 of the Original Volume

A hedgehog, large as a man, husked along behind me
on that tunnel night.
It’s shape, like a lover, roiling and certain in
the caress of love.
It’s eyes, muddy like a river, brown as broth,
sad and aged like a liver leaving life.
And as I, panting like a tournament, overcame the
tortures of my towering flight, he burrowed, like
moley, into the morbid wall and vanished. A ghost
of the heart, sweet and hunched like an actor. And
even on leaving the yoke of fear on some other man’s
shoulders, I was saddened at hedge’s passing.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 23 of the Original Volume

A frozen bird
in the stretching sand
clutched like a warrior
for my staken white hand.
But an ant like an eagle
on wings webbed with faith
swooped like a summer storm
and slew the dark pearl of hate
and vanished like a friend would.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 24 of the Original Volume

My period of birdlings,
a wish upon a word
rolling as the landscape of laughter
that’s hidden in your throaty cuff
of silks and sacking.
The curb of your delicate neck,
pure vision of wiseness.
A bird heard once
of a shallow hearted sage,
who wagers all fellows to out-riddle him.
So the lenient linnet, learned and lored
gently perched on the brim
of his flashing morning satin hood,
and uttered one phrase, a parable of taste,
and the sage sank from wisdomanic view,
like a pistoled pike.
And the countryside was young once more,
for the linnet resumed it’s natural shape
as a gutter dog,
black and white like the proverb.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Pages 25 and 26 of the Original Volume

Beamed like a quaking ship’s mast.
Handsome like a stage coach, robed in thunder brown.
One yellow negro eye scans the failing hand
and a host of theatricals
baubled and jingly,
jestered their tumbling way in
peuce frock-coats and plumed hats,
pierced with crockery.
And fallen young bucks courting
the beautiful Bountise,
manboy, brother of Rossenos,
the sheik eyed,
and tamed the timid women walk,
horse hair, flaxen, oaten torn skirts
and lead planken awful legs veined and blue,
dribbled like a fleeing night
all dripping and wrung of dawn sun.
And the pastel hotel delled and eclipsed
trenched in cobbled stone moats of goat toeways.
And a sparrow limped all little and golden
a broken wing tucked nowhere
except round the blizzard north wind.
All dark town, one tumbled river clown,
one on horseback, now horse led.
His drunk skull painted and pink
clowning, bruised in the chalking gutter.
The horse walks, the clown screams,
a bargee foot caught in the dense root
of a lampost
and blood gushed from a locket socket
and the harley head breathes no more timid
bitter air.
The nodding horse backsteps, sniffs the air
[Page 26]
Earthlord,
sings for blood, bolts like a wave
and onelegged the rancid death carcass clown
mysteries the cobbled watery highways
and a gendarme bellows like a cuckold bull.
Dipped in circus red, the evening sparrow
all sodden and clawed hops homeward,
with a sword heart and a rained memory
for prison life.
Could Hamlet have known.
Ah sweet violins whisper deep sweeps,
in August, for Columbine
and her racked prism rhyme is a spell
bound with elves love of summer.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 27 of the Original Volume

Falcon Queen of distraught youths beam
A laughing mask grilled with chance and sun-bleached hay
One Spanish day in a sailor way
You spoke volumns, you clutched at starlings wings
You nodded gently
And me gallantly torching the way
In my gull-gashed way, stripped bleeding reed dream.
Bullrush orphan of the belled tolling night
I wish you Earth’s rich moss fulfillment
In your bluebell chiming plight.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 28 of the Original Volume

My head I hold to the four winds.
My being, in it’s fullness, as a banner afire with
the rays of life’s light, I decant in a milky jar
to be drunk by the living breeze, to be ridden by
the rider of the muse to a heaven of growing pure
ivory, breeze born and reeling in the joyous poem of
life.
A house of beastly contentment, yet with heads
caped in the knowledge of love, the lace dublets of
wisdom and foundations of eagles ever alert and
mighty, mother eyed, in compassion and feeling
father in the heavy horned harness of state.
My pride I hold upon a jet shield, high in the
domain of the wind.
My folly as a fool, leather-eared and asslike in
the molten paths of my conceit. A leper is healthier
than myself, if cleanliness of soul is a flesh
scholar.
My ears are bangled with tangling ivys sprung
from the fiery downs of falsehood.
For my eyes, hooded and beaten by the years are
eaten by the vulture of mythology.
My skull juice, curdled like an overripe cheese
reeking and ill in my castle of destiny.
Like a pomegranite am I.
Oh, wind ones with your shallow cares for the
darkened heart, in your rolling robes of chivallry,
which way will your guillotine gaze fall.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 29 of the Original Volume

A lily in my mouth
White dawnlips pierced with rose thorn.
A stake of bone escarpes the dingle-stone
Of the throne of my stoat-grown-goat white tusks
all uneven and stormy,
like a swollen lake bearing sandlewood barges
Disregarding ears and jadely earrings
Blessed by priestly Celtic woadmen
With pearly dancing fingers
Gloved on bones of silver dusk runes
Of sad wood wine
And the master builder prances like a puppeteers Mandala
While the mighty oakmen linger
Sobbing cruely on the acorns
Giving vapours of Earth future
To the gypsied hord from Elruna.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 30 of the Original Volume

Quilted head and quested breast
albino eyes seek the lusted chest.
A Quinn of size with tempest eyes,
forsooth he screamed, the peach flies.
And see the lid of darkened sky
the eagle fails, the fleet-winged dies.
A fruit of fur, a carnibor
as tall as Thor, the mysticor.
A paean of fire
leapt steel clad from the cove
all torn and bleached in devil mauve.
I aimed my barb like the dawning wave
and wrote a clef spear around the stave.
And a hand of black topaz hid on a steed
of wondrous dimensions, on storks it could feed.
And down from the bowels of the choking gold cave
rode the sleeping prince regent and the ore rivers of nave.
But my lusted tense raven eclipsed by the bay
roved a rune of distraction to the mute in the hay.
Then the shook ‘rik sicked gospels,
usurped from the wind,
and all was forgiven and the tawny king sprung.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 31 of the Original Volume

Daughters of love unite.
Encircle our woody globe
and blow at the smouldering hearts of our youth,
as if it were Earths’ birthday.
And with the coming of the sweet breath,
the seeds in the garden of all hearts
will flower immense,
and such flames licking and long,
will be sighted upon our lands,
that it will seem to the highborn
that the Earth has hatched anew.
For golden would be the flame.
And gold is the colour of the maturity of Man.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 32 of the Original Volume

Radema flight flower,
hour shower of my wealth,
shifted ‘pon wrought wood cargoes
of wiley islets and dew dribbled
tombed caress, the daughtered dress,
a glow spiralled all foggy,
elled for seven cubits of burrow mint,
sucked tournament bronze dipping tree waif,
hammered like the North Star
on the swelling beach of Bethodere.
Dance you devilled dale of green,
tolled and witching in the flight of wishing
for the bells of winter stark
and cannoned under the crunched
willet wonder of her lancing smile.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 33 of the Original Volume

O locust weariness swelled ‘pon Parnasus high hill
all splendid and love green. Willow head of willow
woods and wept wells of wooded willows. Clammy
summer scorched with lost summer taunt kiss. Hot
lips over Pacific seas of turtle tips scorned by
sabre corals where dead galleys sleep.
O weary safe near wooded dell tell to all the winters
tale of its scorcered pavilion and it’s lassoed
launch and my fat whipped Egyptian and his vast
vat paunch and the Corsican curse which I have
born through my twenty fruittree years of my
wizardesque seasons dense through sandlewood
mansions which that Maltese man leases to my hawk-
heeled zinc eyed guardian.
Sluice-gate sage ride me with rucksack and assorted wares
and garlanded hair to a larger hand.
A god filled sky and a vanquished eye, a Quebecian hall
girded ivory tall and my dear Peruvian dog and
my first love hacked log and some new pure white
lies and eight blind god cat eyes and a hide corked
wine jug with a squirrel child to love and a tall
gallow shouldered saviour of sovereign repute to
teach me manners and how not to cast black sun on
Hannah (my Savana one).

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 34 of the Original Volume

As a listener he sits,
a lizard of light,
crawling the bark of his beard
morn white.
A winter suit of lily’s,
dry yet touched by the dew of the sky.
In it’s expanse, a lone bird
journeyed sullen and determined like a miner.
A jackdaw it seemed, but I doubted.
My learning ring splintered my nights
into wild dark days
weary and eerie
like the foggy hearted forests of Skullan.
It seemed to my living eye
that the maidens watery hand
held a stoat,
but the light had failed and the rainy hew
of the lord of night veiled the land
like a vision.
And I drunk deep of his goblet of blood
like a werehare, and the youth of the dawn
punished me as a thief,
racking me in pillorys of beauty,
dense and pastoral, sweet and fragrant.
Rivers of scented poems travelled
the misty roadways of my crooked nose
and like the vague rogue that I am
I smelt and felt the hem of dawns raiment
with the intensity of a brock
and lo true friends
my all was forgiven.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 35 of the Original Volume

The chariots diminish high on the chartered hills
of science.
One shadow, hairless and crooked, crouched at the
crossroads leaning only on half remembered loves
of his youth and an oaken spent staff of debatable
stoutness.
Seated he watched the skull of the sky, quiet as a
new brook, it’s banks virgin to the foul man. Stars
he measured and cats he slept with, curled in the
arms of night, pillowed on the breast of the
meadow like a babe. But such wisdom and liquid
knowledge tricked down the small falls of his head
as have not been witnessed almost since the beginnings
of stars.
And he’d talk with you and feel no discontentment and
he’d befriend you if you had the wits of a cat and
he’d love you no matter what your fame.
For seated he is a temple, to crawl to, in your mornings
of despair. But standing, alas, no eyes yet born
could accommodate such beauty of features made by the
ancient masters of the maze. Yet of course he knows
it, and remains seated, humbled and exposed until
the dawn of the Procession when all will be
revealed.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 36 of the Original Volume

Eminesque head of Tallow waters
Living deep hidden in my masters quarters —
Come you sweet mouse one
Sleep near June’s bed
And comfort our protector
From his wet churning ocean head.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 37 of the Original Volume

A diggered dog I saw, scorned for his pleasantry’s
and jostled by passing strangers in coarse attire.
His eyes saw humbly and the castle’s saint reared dark
as a forest into his canine vision and kicked with
the palm of his hunting boot, inches into the wagglers
face. And in the raining skys of the afternoon, the
pup, shaken and withered, orphan, mute and savaged
was cupped low within the hand of the meadows and
lost to the hollow eyes of the village men.
Grew great and mastiff and became a god, worshipped
and worried by cropcries and selfish eyes, yet ruled
strong and true and compassionate, like a saint,
strangely.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 38 of the Original Volume

Liquid fleeting music
into the murky streams of time
hollowed in a gulf
of cyprus grove grown slender vine
a pounced moon palely harkens
to the baying of a girl
with an oracle juiced peuce lip
building verbs from windydale.
And you O old thing masked and wheeling
on the pinnacles of night
a hooded hollowed rover,
trundling caskets drunk with light.
And a virgin slaying hide hand
tipped with tongs of tempered steel
riding randy to the beamed lodge-house
robbers’ sanctuary
a goose to steal
you charlatan thundereyes.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 39 of the Original Volume

The hawk of death
the widow fears most
along the islets of the river’s coast
In her house, weak in magic,
the blue wells ’neath her eyes,
muddy and rich, vomit rabbits,
milk white and bare
with artists ears but scoundrels hearts
tattooed and thumping in the pale limpit light
of the pit of angels.
A torso of tin,
dull and knotted, lay sweating
by the bed of the wilted widow.
But her pastures were barren and untilled,
and the illness of Ashemoc dredged her heart
and left her an eyesore
in a century of nymphetic connoisseurs.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 40 of the Original Volume

O nosediving eaglet stormed on a mountain
of glass, pear-rich in havens of torrential
wisdom and baroque melodys upon awful bursting
clouds of hawk blood.
Slip slip skip my fruit friend, iron all
blue veins into compressed cans of random air
jets.
Sink sink think on an ancient hill, forms from
craven hawk hulks, leftovers from the lost
skull of Atlantis.
See see be a fly man winged and sung,
launched upon a wave of shivering gull foam.
Beard beard reared upon a horse house east of the
Arcadian Gulf near Puma, reclosed in my
dead Esters’ automatic stage coach.
Crown crown a sun down gown, burdened with
figs of Esters’ mad hairwishes and rock in
Dad’s lamented twisted well of waterless fire
tongued anguish.
And O the storm of evening on the gull reddened
sky is rocks like my Atlantic vision near the
ravishing brow.
And Demeter loves me most because I of all men
can alter bread to toast.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 41 of the Original Volume

The Corken Cavalier

White candle masted in the oaken ship
The ashen staff knotted and knarled
Leans a rested stalk against the marble mantle
A moulded mound of uncultured Cornwall bred cheese
Sulked in a pale imitation of a gutter pierrot
Portraying pursued pride and a chastened kiwi destiny
The rook of revenge hovered like a cave
Over the passive child who’s whirlinghead
Was a gateway,
For the long trodden robe and rod and ancient runic roads
Of the seeking Elders of Earth.
A chess, cloaked and chosen as a vessel
Fit for the horned kings of the soil
To toil and tarry the milestones of on high
And wingless to walk the paths of the sky
And await the perilous procession of willows
With a laugh in your teeth and a heart overshadowing
The realm of your head.
One cavalier donned wings of cork
And forced the stalwart starling to read aloud the runes
He tunneled down swifter than the eye
Heavy in speed, still as the mountain of years
A fool in a grave of cork
So deep in the core of the abyss
That Solomon, Count of on High,
Has spent strained nights eyes burnt and used
Moleing the sodden soil of the seasons
And not seen a sign nor spoke a word
With any of the hidden hords of the delving deep
Who’d as much as spake to a savage rummager
Who’d seen with shielded vision or head with cloven ear
In the dank and deep lore of old
Any tell of the Corken Cavalier.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 42 of the Original Volume

A southern homestead, a warrior sucking spring liquid
from a ferny waterwell in the field. His sword sickled like
the pearly May moon. His willow toe, a travelled hollow
of orchards and vineyards, fording brown streams in the
gauntlet of land, east of the leaning cedars.
A rustic land peopled by hermits. Skyward and tilted
they map the skys palm, howl on the haunted hillocks
that Aznageel’s awoken.
The wet roping hair of the fairess is set like a talisman
on the southlands of her head. And a wolf of marble, snowy
like a storm with blizzard brow and ivory fangs, ranges
the steeplands like a poaching forester in the light.
O such a wonder at dusk, his tusks, dribbling like a stream.
And his thunder ahowling on the granite of night’s dream,
a white wolf proclaimer of fortune. A child chooser. A
friend of the fair, all snowed and like winter. If you
wish hard, he’s there.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 43 of the Original Volume

Although it stands
like a widow to the world
the birds’ husband
and appears to our criminal sight
a heartless ornament
cold as twilight
the birds know it’s moods
for the statue is more than it seems.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 44 of the Original Volume

Haunted eyes and night,
decide upon the storms back who’s to ride
abreast the chest of inlaid iron.
With smelted mail and spears of Cairn,
the thunder beast — a steed of flame —
a sorcerers hour in the fiery game.
The bit and stirrup, a smouldered hand,
a bony skinless smithed brand.
And the servant of water,
the daughter of pain,
the nymphet of Nature’s nourishment,
the jestered pale rain.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 45 of the Original Volume

Oiled fire canopy
launched from his mane like shimmering train
my palm all ascreech
with torn warmth for legs encircling me,
calm body heat
charmed medallion breast round and true
like a forest beasts thigh
and a scaled mans eye
all darkened in the night of a seashell eyeball,
On his mad mane all alive and redly
a deadline pine hacked and laughing
upon his white jaunted crippled chin,
a pony boy all stemmed and loping
chewed all the tulips
and with gartered feet
vomited redness on the sudden lawn
and shell-eye loved eagle-pie
a fool man with tortoise wisdom and stapled teeth,
a man who could kill a sky stallion
is a worthless clod, a baboon soul
with a forked streak of liver upon his forlock.
For my angel wore a cloud shroud
and a pea green talon of candle sheen
which waxed her young skin
and threw moon-tune all upon her children
and all my spawn had a song
and wore wondrous jet breast plates
of heart dark.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 46 of the Original Volume

A ship of rhythm lit like a beacon
tossed like a ferret on the
wings of fleeing night.
Snuggled like an acorn,
Withered like a willow,
Wanded by the skycloaked founder
of precious light.
His nose was a clifftop unto me.
An ocean swelling and talking
Was lost in the lonesome lands
Of his kind hand, and he gave
To me a word to brand my being with
To wash in it’s windy splendour and mellowness
And to treasure as my inheritance,
When the panther of pride beckons me,
For he knows me since a sapling
Through the ink of my foolishness he’s seen
And he’s cared
As a father would.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 47 of the Original Volume

Sing us a song
from the furrows of your heart
of spirals of wild geese
and talk chalk cliffs immense and changing.
And a rain song,
a cloud calmer
to sooth the prowlers in the temple.
Yes, O sing us worldly ballads
yon fair skinned balladeer.
Perhaps of hunting in the deepest
fog-filled regions of my wood realm,
of roes running and stags sunning
in the cool stare of the fair lady of my household
the small daughter of the cloud caller
who’s shadow’s taller than any living thing.
Or a sleep song for my precious children,
a pigeon portion of the shuttered refrain
of Indian elephants
proudly leading transparent tigers
on smithed chains.
Yes, Lutition, the bed of my head is made,
Silk awaits me.
Wake me in the dawning
With the morning of your song.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 48 of the Original Volume

The verse of her life
limped forlorn in the moon of her day
like an eternity.
She once ruled the hearts of men.
On all fours they’d grovel,
fish in her cunning pool.
But alas her moon waxed.
Like a mighty juggler the starry
garments tumbled from her timber limbs,
like a cloud thirst,
a rainless sky in the hills of autumn,
distant at the doors of debauchery.
The halls of condolence
rang empty in her presence, for a child was born.
Clad as a fledgling,
the innocence of man under the shadow
of the furrowed brow,
dark and still,
a river of silver regrets
trickling, fumid and foul
through the tunnels of dusk.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 49 of the Original Volume

A Tear for the High Star

A tear for the High Star,
hidden pinnacle of the brow.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 50 of the Original Volume

Our bed of love is like a glove,
tender and warm, that we creep into
when the eye of noise whines
like a bird of prey.
Our gauntlet smoothly sails our sea of dreams,
like a mountain, solid
yet begotten from the Earth
and at the old mothers mercy.
Merely one petal, frail and fragrant,
pillowing our sleepy bodies,
silent in the noise of the night.
Loud in the night of silence
we snuggle and vibrate,
entwined like saplings of the vine.
And warm, we laugh,
our silver selves like spartans,
brown as the bread of the wilderness,
but tender and with limbs light and subtle
through the eternal washing in the spring of wisdom.
Winged, but not birds.
Fathers, but no children, kinsman yes.
The plateau of peace,
in it’s japanese splendour,
is for us my friend,
to share with bear and to worship
without pride the swanfolk of the moon,
the stallion of the sun,
and to nestle like sparrows
under the warm immense beard of the master.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 51 of the Original Volume

At leafy dale
the mammoth snail
on the head of an oak sat.
It’s house a fiery crimson
and it’s visionary eyes friendly and sad.
Lonely was he, as huge as a wish,
his colours throbbing in the dense
fog of sunset.
And then he sang,
notes true and full,
pure as the pearly horn of unicorn,
lithe as a fairy dance
in the rustling forest glades of Esher.
Birds, tall and princely,
little and pale, blue and delila,
green as the evenings kiss,
hovered over his unseeing horns.
Shadows and men,
horses, and gryphons
geese and shapes in pale attire,
with burning eyes and hair of the waves
lighting the skies with little lamps
of moon beams and star kisses.
The morning came like the crack of a whip,
all melted with hearts brimming
with sweet song and prophecys
of the triumphant return.
But alas, as the snails last living
sparrow of sound dipped and dived
and flew to the rainbow, all life had vanished.
And on opening his shuttered chateau of sight,
alone he was
and thought he had always been so.
And his weeping was long and destroying.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 52 of the Original Volume

Dance the night in rags
of vineyard grey.
Move like a willow water
gushing through the gates of dance.
The chance of love in the twilight,
bejewelled tassels binding the
startangled skys,
like a fisherman.
Motion toed,
loping up the hillocks of youth
like a furry soul,
drinking with your sweet springing mouth,
hooded by the stream of Pan.
Then the morn and simitar rain
and pain on your bruised lips
like a locket,
but the wine is hidden
and the key is thee
and the troupe like a hoop
ascends the hills like a sleep
and the day like a wheel
is ever turning.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 53 of the Original Volume

A demon of the grave
bore me away on a solid ship,
black as a villians heart.
A lost sun, a gloomy blue,
shone on my bronze lids
like a summertime.
The hobbly nobbly skull of the knave
was green,
a sheen such as the slime
extracted from the citadel
of a long bad oak,
rotted and hollowed
by the winter of greed.
It’s fingering verse
wove webs around my young head
and ate my courage like sweet cakes
and a moat, brown and deep,
he produced from the linings
of his grape-coat.
On a barge of bodys
tied with lifes’ thongs
we sailed the mire
and arrived pitch black
at his shack by the shore.
And there I died,
sliced by my own image
yet freed by my own enemy
my flesh on a pyre,
and me silver limbed
a lyre for the heroes of the ages
to play tender love lays
in my hearts’ house
to serenade the beings of the beginning,
like an orchard,
ripe and rewarding.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 54 of the Original Volume

We stood there in the youth of our love,
Me asparagous green, you with fortunate gloves.
My rapier staff was of yeilding summer oak
And your toes were tongued with dynastys of foxgloves
And we strode tall and long with the scowling winter
Everso gone.
And our hair was as one head, spiraled and twirly
grotto-grieven red.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 55 of the Original Volume

Travelling the Earth on a sows back,
seagreen and perilous
Lovett nostrils strutted with steel rings
smithed in the holes of the hollow hill.
A turban of glitter stuck to my head,
like an arm.
Not mine, but from a pyramid of past passions,
throbbing and wrong like the fingertips of tong.
I sleep wide eyed and wild.
An elephant boy on a pig that’s as stout
as a rhinosaurus with Samuri mail
and a thunder bow plucked from the branches of the moon
cold, the ear hair spoke to me in silver words,
un-understood but tearbringers.
My legs cramped in a vice of water
yet the seas of Man were untold distances below me.
And like a Syrian boy I weep — poetically,
on the hind legs of my destiny.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Pages 56 and 57 of the Original Volume

All sodden the sky,
like a princess, weeps.
The bush by the gallows
exiles the birds of the dawn
to less morbid domains, for
the Worm has been sighted.
A young god, who’s summer hands
were moulded for the pleasures
of the grove and the leisures of the lyre,
quakes like a mountain of earth’s youth.
And it comes like a sorceress,
one eye shines with yellow rays of orkney wisdom.
One side of it’s divided mouth,
a smile like hope.
Teeth, auburn.
Seats for the saints, the eye
hidden in the mists and foul
flowering fog is wholly dark and corrupt.
It’s limp light of lust and greed
dries the paths of it’s sight
like a biblical plague,
and hornets huge and hoary
jig a sad immitation of the act of love.
Bizarre theatrics unsuited for the eyes
of the first born
and the wise limbed children of the daylight.
A howl terrible and long
sped on the paths of wind.
A claw, cautious and yellow,
considered it’s preordained actions,
as a crystal watcher would.
Black as the wilderness,
the fangs of blue, eyeless,
tore it’s divided flesh
[Page 57]
searing the watchful night with pains
from the great tear of time.
Teeth like great oaks, sharpened and
mellowed for war.
In the dawning faith of the new day,
lost fleeing wisps of mist lingered
blindly.
One last dying opal prophecy was left
hovering unheard in the morn.
The heap stared, mishapen,
like the first roads of a life,
a monument of the tortures of the sane.
But, alas, with the dispersion of the
wisdom mist and the foul fingering fog,
all went unchanged.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 58 of the Original Volume

Sleek Andromeda swirling in an undershift,
a pimple temple like on her portcullis longship
lip. I dance on her gliding stomach of fibs and
erect my many coloured mast in her belly-button.
Take a cheekbone, any cheekbone, lay it pastely
on a furnace brasier and look for sand. Marrow
melts, mud squelches and belches over my
handsomely haunted hand but no sand.
A beach I whimper I need to bask upon a sun-dipped
dripping moon of beach. My face feels the draft now,
my shaggy face lags like a quilled pig — my bones
burnt and not a seed of sand remains only a high
forked pitch of light cine-marly sailing my sagging
dripping wood-wild skipping face.
And now reader I have only half a head.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 59 of the Original Volume

Easel tomb of distant shore
My iron barbarian pincer door
Is bolted and bridled like a colt
And a foal of laughter dances deep
Alcoving in his absynthe coat
And his perriwig sung like a foggy night
On a salted beach
Carved from a ransomed behemoth.
A beautiful beast with a coat of pure damask
A sprig of terror, a hoof of forest horn.
Unicorned in a sinking sky,
The beast expired like a snow-cloaked winter robin
On the destiny of days.
And avalanched August skipped and wheeled
On the sheilded loom of life’s strife.
And one lonesome ox calf died with the christening
Of dawn.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 60 of the Original Volume

Cloak me in ermine Merlin
Hawk of the legendary past
Proud shore eyes
Far flown childhood
Devourer of field fellows
Hunter Prince for crimson fellons
Lean pale childs all grown stumped and tawny
Club-eyed
Wearied foot
Waltzing
Towering Earth’s pastures
A furry fetcher
Jaws of ivory bones
And upon the rakes fallowed brow
Gleams the judgment of the sow
And the Merlin’s misered plummage grinned in the wind.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 61 of the Original Volume

From my mouth’s heart I speak
and my eyes bleed their blood.
Distant in passion,
my mariners cheek is a window
for all to see.
The dark cranes fly low,
but even in their lowness
their flight is still a stain
on the suitings of the wind.
For once an evil is invited,
curtained or free-roaming,
the hair will vanish,
white with the shame of it
and the spirits casket
shaped like a man but not,
will warp and wither
in the heather sprinkled garden
of life’s lessondry
and hope becomes the worshipped god
of the centuries.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 62 of the Original Volume

Oh sturdy lord in your gaudy land
I beseech a pebble from your hand
For to stow deep within my new gilded cage
To fear off the mute deaf muse of age
And my rose lute rides my limbs like a wave.
Oh true tearfull lover of the weather-woven sage,
near his well in the dell on the dale cupped with frail
wounded newborn sparrow birds you and with life
carved upon their arteries with the blunt end of my knife.
For the brown boy, son of rustics, has a musket and
a crate of bleached sea-travelled peach rum and the
skull key’s to my baby’s gate.
Woe, I am betrayed.

Marc Bolan, The Warlock of Love
Page 63 of the Original Volume

In the hall, high above the ceiling
the furnace heaters blew.
Blackhat fondled his white lashing hair,
his avalanched glacier diminished
in the artificial suns.
A leg quivered, river green and massive
like girders of seagold.
A roar grew in the wrestling room of daybreak.
Blackhat tittered with prideful delight.
Mine he moaned,
the melting water scurried down the appropriate
channels.
And now where once stood solid water
stood the reptile king,
Tyrannosaurus Rex, reborn and bopping.

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