, , , , , , ,

Friends don’t fuck, your father claimed. True, perhaps,

though I don’t know what else to call these acts


of ours, waiting for your school bus. Relapse?

Bare backsliding? Snu-snu? I’d say that facts


argue that friends do, often, savagely.

I might be a corrupting influence …


though your fascination with sodomy

started long before, you claim. The fragrance


of sweat, cum and new knowledge fills the air,

your sheets all splotched. Once I swore that I’d end


it with you … the way that all addicts do.

Now I lapse, gaily. Now I just don’t care


what your father thinks. True, you are my friend

as well as why I love all that’s taboo.



, , , , , , ,

How do the sober mate? The ones not drunk

on quick kisses. Who don’t drop to their knees


on the first date. Who tuck their luscious junk

away and never learn how to say, “please,


cum-plum, I need more.” More libertine sex

magic and all the proteins found in cum.


More rough gods and nipple clamps. More objects

designed for pleasure. Imagine Sodom


as a lazy date night. The world is ours.

Imagine a kiss that leaves you stoned, sloshed,


flushed. Imagine me knocking on your door.

Debauched acts: what soils the soul in others


is our prayer. Pray savage, come drunk, unwashed.

Tell me that you want this … that you need more.



, , , , , , , ,

— on  Beltane (May 1st)


Summer heat in the forest. Green rage, haze.

Too hot. Too sluggish. The wind-bells don’t stir.


The birds don’t stir. Too sultry for dull praise

and dull ritual — Only the lover


and the witch stir; all who pray erect, wet

to touch, open to air — Only lovers


whose skin sheens, whose kisses come slick with sweat,

who cum as gushings, downpours, flood waters.


A touch of sodomy between the trees.

A touch of vulgarity; satyrs blush


when they see us together. Praise this sleaze

and all that it has wrought. Praise rush and gush,


the tongue in your mouth, the flesh of your rump

in this haze; all that is muscled, round, plump.



, , , , , ,

In the Season of Slosh, dank and swampy,

in Thrimilce, the Month of Three Milkings,


when all that drips and rains and bleeds in me,

each spurt and geyser, will be offerings.


Nothing is as bewitching; a horned god

in the spring heat, long and lovely and lush.


Green heat: I want to impale you, ramrod

you in sacrifice to the forest. Gush,


as sap gushes, down your garlands. Cock-slap

your blithe face, stretching jaw, your bulging throat.


In juice is joy, they say. In cum wisdom.

Bless the sacred; be it spit, seed or sap.


Bless the damp earth. Bless lovers that devote

themselves daily to wisdom and to cum.


Note: “Thrimilce,” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the month of May, when the animals of the earth are so fertile that the ewes can be milked three times a day.



, , , , ,

Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt

spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant

and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass

as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass

veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want

consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,

in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.



, , , , , ,

Would we conjoin? The well-cut and wicked
know how to fuck. But you and I? We’re crass

and ill-shaped — Flesh not meant to run naked
under plump green vines, wind’s wild pampas-grass;

asses not meant to be tapped. We were born
under the signs of phlegm and oddities;

less chic and more shriek. In all of their porn
nothing looks like us. That’s good. Others please,

we tire, swamp-corpse and bloat. Our carnal sin:
sloth. Our lewd god: nuzzling gone awry.

When you tell me, “your body will haunt mine,”
that’s a threat. We’re not grape’s whine: its juice, skin,

madness. We’re what’s left: hot dust, empty sky
twitchy things, the grotesque in the grapevine.

itchy ghost


, , , , , , , ,

Praise to the needle and praise to the thread;
how they suture a pucker together.

Picture a moonface, my face, my forehead
slit in two. Beastly flap flopping, glimmer

of bone mixed with blood. A doctor at work:
that jab thrust pull, jab thrust pull on my lip

diced, seams leaving me with a grotesque smirk,
jackal grin. My chin sliced. My finger tip.

My odd hip. Itchy ghost of zipper scars
and flick knives. Small lewd ghost of aortal

blood and wire. You both know the infamy
that is sewn under these clothes; mark of Mars,

mar of bloodshed, held in place with needle
and thread. Y’all put the “scar” into scary.



, , , , ,

Susurrus: “a soughing of the waves;
murmur of flow.” Kissing you in the fog,

under stunted myrtle. When the flesh craves
more than just fingers and tongues, when a snog

goes on for too long – your jeans unbuttoned,
dew drops in your pubes, mica-flakes under

your nails – you make that lechery-moistened
groan. The sea cries in want and you answer

with your own cum-soaked sob, estuary
soaking your jeans. In those fifteen minutes

during recess – with dune grass, pear cactus,
with wet panting in us and susurrus

around us – we become the wind’s secrets
to the surf; children of chaos and glee.

mad sea


, , , , , ,

There is always more to love. For you love
is a koi gliding through water: content,

at peace, blest. For me it is the clawed glove
piercing fish-flesh, feeling you wriggle, bent

double. Come, cum, pray: intense, phrenetic,
like a pretty piece of flesh — or a crushed

chrysanthemum — or the gothic chronic
that I roll for you. You have blushed and blushed,

swimming in circles. I do not love pools.
I love the mad sea. I love the forces

that no soul can control. Pierced and hoisted
high, fish, you crash back down. Seas have no rules.

Gape and gasp as all inside you gushes,
geysers, squirts such thick chaotic fluid.



, , , , , , ,

I’ll give you the, “root of suffering.” That
and the damn shag carpet will leave fresh rug burns

on your chin, your ass, over each knee, brat.
Sure, they’ll fade soon, from tart’s rosette to slattern’s

brown. The scabs will follow, crusty as lace.
And all around your precious throat, bruises,

both blue and yellow, will mark an embrace
that’ll match my fingertips. There aren’t sutras

for such love; but since all flesh aches, which leads
to such base urges, Buddha will know the itch

that we scratch. Under the shower steam flows
up our backs, soothing our cocaine nosebleeds,

letting heat soak into each scar, each stitch,
burning away all remorse, all sorrows.

The basis of Buddhism is a doctrine known as the Four Noble Truths. A loose interpretation of the First Truth is that all life is suffering, pain, and misery. The Second says that the root of this suffering is caused by cravings and desire … at that point I stopped reading.