cunnilingus, desists, erotic poetry, Hecate, lick me don't fuck me, lingis non futuis meam, poem, Poetry, right hand magic, sonnet
Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you
said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;
we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo
that you call lust still stands. Magic commands
so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,
coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.
My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,
along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash
cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix
the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”
Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,
don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.
All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss
her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.
Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.