Tags
blue, bolline, chalice, dreamer what do you need?, homoerotic, huge cock, pentagram, smudge stick
Season’s fire enters and I burn. Always
flame; this does not get easier. Aunty,
where is a spring of hope when I’m ablaze?
Where is hope when the one I love leaves me?
All our old men talk of love like they talk
of all things; narrowly. Hell’s nothingness
is far better than a broken heart. Cock
and cunt. Ass and mouth. I am a chalice
boy; born in a pentagram. Take this smudge
stick, Aunt, take this bone bolline. We shall cut
it out. This fire. This heart. This pain. Carnage
in bed. Now cut the strings to this puppet.
Puppets burn. The one I loved left, I bloomed
into fervor, wanting to be consumed.
memories of my ghost sista 
I’m always amazed at how few people ever comment on the beauty of your words. I guess they see the visuals on your site and think, “…filthy pornographer…” and the residue of their Puritan-based moral code kicks in. Knee-Jerks with knee-jerk judgements narrowing their world experience more with every move.
Later…
Thank you very much! But, you know, if I have to be filthy I’d rather it in naughty drawings versus, oh, I don’t know, the guy who replaces urinal cakes in public restrooms. Both jobs are dirty, but in wildly different ways.
Too funny. Reminds me of the Porta-San guy from the film of Woodstock when they interview him on the intricacies of porta-potty cleaning and he’s so dense he doesn’t get they’re making a comic figure of him.
Later…
That’s the scary thing about irony, it will haunt you and all the generations following. Somewhere, his grandchildren will be watching Woodstock, sighing loudly, and saying, “yeah, that’s grandpa, the porta-potty cleaner.” Cheers!