boisterous flesh


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Jaded, moi? All this still shocks, awe still shrouds
my bones. I have traipsed while on acid trips,

stood at the edge of fens with squall-gorged clouds
rolling in and thought of you naked, hips

deep in mire. Landscapes should all have a nude
you in them. —Savagely muddy. —Vicious

with wild needs, wild need. What unabashed mood
prompts us to bare witness? Our boisterous

flesh loves the earth and sea. I love your flesh.
Greens of hills, browns of marsh, gray bog swirled;

I still adore this despite my lewd thoughts,
always lewd thoughts. Love, these storm-fresh

skies still bring joy, though I’m far from my world
of Crones and Amazons, Queens and Sexpots.

off the lost coast headlands


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Strong winds, then squalls. Rain scooting over sea
while fog swallows me up, leaves me lagooned,

warped in wild-haired gray. The split-plank jetty
groans in the storm. I mean to be marooned

here, too. Waves, billow daughters, have promised
to have me one last time. They care nothing

for man-made gods, tedious laws. Their lust
is the sea’s — pure as fucking and drowning,

rough faith. You should be here. The sea has no
use for cum, not like you — streaks splashed hardcore

on your cheeks. What waves want is warmth, the spark
that moves love, moves my flesh like tide, lust’s flow.

I’ve been swallowed by you just once before —
now I’ll leave my heat mixed with rain-stained dark.



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You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.



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Coddy-moddy, fanny-nosh. The priest swore
it sin. Dickory-dock is prayer, I swear.

“I’ve done this,” you said. “I was ate before
I was seven.”
You pouted: “No — not there.

Yes, like that.” I undid, unclasped, unbound.
I let fall until you stood stark in front

of the window. There are bodies hell-bound
in the dark that crave to be seen. Cock, cunt

and all-flesh in extreme. Who was the first
to want you? worship rough in your altar?

leave you sloppy? For years I was thirsty,
but then you found me and settled my thirst

— now I savor returning this favor,
this prayer, this sublime kiss that sets us free.



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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.



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Visions of an inferno. Queer fire dwells
out there. Fire of the fallen is still fire

that loves you; down to your genes, to your cells.
I do not question what I call desire.

It’s the twist of vulgar gender that piques
me. The drive of geezerbirds and chickboys.

All that bright rich sky in a storm that shrieks
leaden control. Rebel angels knew joys

that their coup d’état brought. To rise. To romp
in flesh that we’re given. To love secrets

that fill the soul, fill up an inferno.
Let’s be messy children who love to stomp,

sing and burn; let’s be the flame that poets
dream of. This fire: make it love, not sorrow.

suck face


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I dream I drown. I vanish with a splash,
somewhere. What love does not osculate? play

smack lip? My face: two black eyes and a gash
cleft by an axe. An indifferent doomsday;

you will never kiss flesh lost to the sea,
never kiss me and we say that a kiss

is where all romance roosts. My velvety
tip of tongue shall be lost. My faith in bliss,

sacred like the tide, shall be lost as well.
Hell shall be tulip sauce, sounds of suck face

elsewhere. My grave mistake shall be no grave
dirt for you to weep over, to bless. Hell

shall be knowing that your kiss would bring grace
but still being lost in this surge and wave.



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Voluptuous under flannel. Daggers,
stones and diesels; filling all that you wear

with joy. On the prowl. On the side. Lovers
of love, this is the truth about that dare:

dick-slap our faces. You, Keiko and Drew
crouched on the floor, upturn grins all aglow.

Vodka, ganja, Truth or Dare left Day Two
of our acey-deucey, bifocal blow

out a blur. Blouses on the bed. Born of?
Born for? None of that matters. The soul gleams

beloved. Kiddywinks and saints of Stonewall
nurture us: love is love is love is love

even when standing above you. With jeans
loose I blushed then let fall for one and all.

mort douce


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Haven comes in psychokick flick-knives, nails,
poor boy honey, joombye and beat-up doll’s

spit, the kind kids call: knee tremble details,
vicious buttercream, phat fanny bomb brawls.

Circle jerks and splooge shissom are code names.
We dance to Kunt Kustard trance, Cock Vomit

and their five finger solos. Roaring-flames.
Lusty-guts. Rump-shakers. Fabulous smut

is my bible, nancy high boy my priest,
roundheeled gal my oracle. Like acid

I lick both sides of the stamp. Odds be raised,
I’m still your lollipop stop, your greased feast,

batty rider. Clit club, a stud of blood
in your sweet death. Mort douce. Dog-knotted glaze.



, , , , , , ,

Back when cars exploded for no reason
and T couldn’t stand no jibber-jabbing

I blew my chance. Not in some cheap hyphen
ass dumb punchline but in you. Blitzkrieging

fingers in your curls plastered to the sides,
your skin dark opal. Dumb star-crossed children,

your dad said. We were clean as doom. Our prides
crimped to the max, feathered, teased with strychnine,

lye, waste. Your dad said that I was: bad news,
confused, going through a phase. Like a “Damn-

phase. To pity fools, to taste cum and booze

on your breath. To recall your purse held: Wham!
cassettes, used condoms, our cashed baby bong.