ghoul sick


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Drenched in your sweat, sticky from sticky acts,
I run my palm down your back, rub cum-funk

across your face. Anything that distracts
you from your pain is a blessing. Our drunk

spine-twist, two-fist afternoon trysts always
distract. You taste like bong-water after

gagging on me. We lay back in a haze
that goes on for miles. You light another

dirty roach though you have to be at school
soon. You might make it … if the PCP

doesn’t kick in first. There is no shower
and the sink water is brown. You are ghoul

sick yet here we are. I stare at your knee
and it splits open up: all clit-flower.



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Flesh works, a crucible pungent with ore,
melted slag all soggy, a drenched poppy —

sweaty backseat acts leave your puckered core
stretched wide. Your hands work around my neck, knee

pressed to my chest, eyes glazed. In an hour
you’ll be back home, dropped off a block away.

Propped on one elbow you blow sweet-and-sour
spliff smoke into my mouth. Mixed with noonday

heat I trace salt stripes down your spine. The air
grows large — pungent with lub-dub sweat, lip gloss,

lube, your waxed pearl — while a milky sun ray
fills up the backseat, obscuring my bare

thigh wrapped under you, smearing cum across
your ripped orange tee of Che in beret.



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Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

muddied drop


, , , , , ,

First came spigoting; twisting inside you
to let the hazed swamp heat out. What was it?

Grinding of hips? A blowtorch? A corkscrew?
Something deep bruised your viscera. Spirit

of cum puddles and sparks, of lewd vapor
and scars. To treat you like fuck meat, sweetly

immature, is an act of faith. Skewer
you raw, on hands and knees, that’s prayer. Knock-knee

and splayed hip; your fingers warped the bed sheets.
What dripped was a muddied drop. We giggled

to be so nasty, goblins damned. Bare-legged
and backside, we, “shudder’d at it,” as Keats

would say. We have craved and beseeched and yowled
for each thrust — blood fueled by gin and acid.



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Others see silvered far-flung loneliness.
Shadowed boom of surf. The waste of breakers

pulling back. The voices that they hear: chaos,
malice, an alien ear. These others

took in the mirror to find the divine.
I look in the long sweep of waves. Rolling

lash of dark water against the hull. Brine
on my lips. Endless gray wet. There’s nothing

for the landsmen obsessed with sin and shame
down here; the men who say that they have known

that their divine is here to mollify
them with what is unknowable. No name.

No shape that you’ll recognize as your own
except in shadows as great fish swim by.



, , , , , , ,

Beastly. Impaled and crushed against the wall,
palms flat, slap-slapping out count at each stroke

while gin, the feathered serpent and menthol
pierce you to your core. Tonight we’ll invoke

banjee beats with Verde Viento. Green Fuse.
Arse Elektronika — Between the hips

with four fingers dug deep: we’ll let sweat-ooze
and spit-cum drip down. Gods whose fingertips

touch us leave a mark, the rest leave a sore
bruise. I leave the slamecka: the buildup

to when both your thighs give way, your speech slurs,
and the gods and saints are with you, hardcore.

Slathered in my own saliva, heaved up,
I can balance you on my four fingers.

gods and bodily fluids


, , , , , , ,

Trepanned: a holed skull. Lulled by the bubble-
blown glass bong that we traded back and forth,

fingers touching. You blew into my skull,
the hole all smoke. Your stoop was 5th and North;

you pressed with your nail deep into my pink.
Everyone laughed making my thigh spasm.

Shamans did this to talk to the gods, link
themselves up to the divine. I’m just numb

from too much faith that even King Tut weed
can’t calm. You waggled your thumb in and out.

My bones hurt — “Then am I/ a happy fly?”
Papa Blake asked, since maggots breed

in here and with my gape I’m a devout
trepanned mystic, one with a cum-soaked thigh.



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After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.

It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.

Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones

hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones

leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate

wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —

one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.



, , , , , ,

It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.



, , , , ,

Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.