bastard’s freak


, , , , , , ,

Arse’s trickster; Lather maker; Rude root.
You say cocks are symbols of devotion,

godhood, rebirth; like you’re the first to put
the “erection” back in resurrection.

Knacker bone; Billy-me-nag; Love’s horsewhip.
First strip away myths, all the begetting,

its use as a weapon, male ego; strip
it bare and what’s there? 8-inches … pulsing.

Leather stretcher; Jockey’s pride; Bastard’s freak.
Some days I can say, “Brother, your beauty

haunts me.” Give me those days without bullshit
crafted to glory in this queer physique —

days where I can leave your face soaked, splotchy,
cum-streaked, where you hold out your palm and spit.



, , , , , , ,

Perhaps it was the flavor — the essence —
the smell. Perhaps it was the study hall

after school — meant for our math and science
homework. With doors locked the sunlight would crawl

out from the windows. It strayed, meandered,
returned back to the spot where you straddled

my face, grinding, while you sang out the slurred
glories of my tongue. You convulsed, bejeweled

my cheeks, chin, lip until I swallowed you,
hodge-podge, all the while your clitoral hood

rubbed me raw. Perhaps it was in that zone
before we went home, cum-dazed, stuck like glue,

peeling yourself back that I understood,
dear friend, I could live on your cum alone.

whimper low


, , , , , , ,

Gray day; snow with crows outside. With snogging
on the broken-down sofa. With whiskey

in bone-blue mugs and blue-bone smoke twisting
from the blunt between fingers. With curry

take-out. We let an amaranthine
mist fog the windows. We let the record

skip while we bucked. We let the sofa’s spine
whimper low. All semester we were bored

with our classes. All holiday the gale
blew. In one day we’ll be back to classes;

sleet-stained and cum-blind. I can hear the crows
cawing even as you gasp and exhale.

Let this day be this: nothing surpasses
simply kissing and grinding in our clothes.

phantasmic slit


, , , , , , ,

Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer

cesarean incision that will bear

me no child and will never heal. All fear

rests right here (between hip and hip) right there

(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra

do I need to drive a knife through to keep

myself from feeling this way? Since vodka

only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep

without dreaming let me run fingernails

across my phantasmic slit; that which you

can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut

this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s

trail that not even the gods can undo.

A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.



, , , , , , , , ,

The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.



, , , , , ,

First I took clay, breathed over it. In my mouth:
sand, storm, burning sky. Then I fashioned it,

beloved, into you and everywhere — south,
north, down, up — paused, listened to this misfit

magic. The breeze listened. The bread listened.
The knot listened. The dawn listened. Sun dawned.

I woke you up; painted your lips, crimsoned
your eye-holes. You blinked twice, sat up and yawned.

This is before the Bengal cat tail-plug
that you loved. Before you learned desire

and walked through this world like a colossus.
You were famished. You ate drug after drug;

all I had. That first trip you simply were,
beloved, all naked, divine, monstrous.



, , , , , , ,

I am naked all day to match my mood —
The French must have a word meaning, “almost

euphorically horny.” It’s why I’m nude
writing this to you now, little sad ghost

that no one wants. Come over, I want you.
We can preen, paint our nails, slurp tea, snuggle

or do that one thing that the living do
to feel better. That one obscene, shameful,

sublimely fun act that you have not done
in ages. We will be naked chums, bosom

pals, wild playmates. Little sad ghost, lover,
delight is contagious, and so is fun.

Life is too short for sorrow and boredom.
Come here. Get undressed. I miss your laughter.

bless the hips


, , , , , ,

Pleasure is full of invisible things
that you feel but just dimly know. Darkness —

split in half, shaman-child, by climax — brings
visions; hawk of Venus, fox of Eros.

To ripe. To rot. Cum’s bloom. We both follow
sparks that all these fingers, cocks and cunts give.

Sessing insights in that moment of glow.
Call it depraved but what god won’t forgive

naughty when it feels good? Don’t try to sess
all those who love the husks but not the fruits.

Those who stop praying when the spirit’s sky
fills them even for a second. We bless

the hip’s bliss; not old trees but their deep roots;
not the zealot’s cry but our cum-deep sigh.



, , , , , , ,

It’s not narcissism to want sadism
and the knotted lash. Get treated like trash

after orgasms— after opium—
let raunch remain. Thrash marks. Ash from your hash

pipe in your hair. Face down. Ass up. You glare
from clove-hooded lids, gape wide while queer fluids

drip from your cheeks. You swear that this is prayer.
Faith needs pain. I’ve sucked on your nipple studs

— ridden you to ruin. Burnt you. Graven
image that you are. Each stroke is the stroke

that might break you, but won’t. The sky is bright,
we are alive and O soul! What Latin

means a furious fuck? We smoke. We toke.
We are all the essences that unite.

like fog three fingers


, , , , , , , ,

First came morning London fog, thickening
curtains beyond the door that your husband

just left from. Then a curious rapping
at your kitchen door. In all of England:

you, from Mumbai, I, an exchange student,
became neighbors. You giggled (thirteen-years

older than me, ex-doctor, now pregnant
housewife) then let me in. Rejection, fear,

isolation — the gloom of the soul — stirs
queer sides in us all. “You’ll call me Aunty,”

you said, rising from your knees, your boredom
gone, your grin gone wet like fog, three fingers

running across your cheek, nose, the bindi
moon on your forehead, all splattered with cum.