down at the fish disco
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
Posted in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on you, me and margo channing
Tags
art, cocksucker, poem, Poetry, rust of your tum-tum, sick-smack-junk-cunt, sonnet, writing in Free Verse is like playing tennis without a net
It was those thousand years of poetry
before “cocksucker” appeared in print, back
when Free Verse was the bad boy with acne
and brylcreem. When simply writing, “sick,” “smack,”
“junk,” “cunt,” made you historic. Those twee times,
niminy-piminy with dead white dollops
and all that rot. Poems should work like lines
of pure cocaine. If they don’t fuck you up
then its crap. I want verse that you must rinse
in blood to understand, cut all the rust
of your tum to open. Write lines demanding
guts. Yours. Spilled like great art. But I’m crap since
I can’t figure out how to do that just
now you’ll have to settle for this warning.
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
Posted in Illustration and art
≈ Comments Off on and a little more of my childhood dies
Tags
a little bit of my childhood just died, art, artist unknown, Calvin and Hobbes, Christopher Robins and Winnie the Pooh, sob
“don’t worry, we did just fine …”
ah, grief. this is my teddy bear. he’s 43 years-old, given to my by my uncle on the day of my birth. i’m sharing him with you because we all have something that we love and keep secret from everyone else. i don’t even know who is reading this but, please, when my time comes as it does for everyone please make sure he’s buried with me. i do not want to spend eternity without at least one friend by my side.
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on edge of my skin [2]
Tags
art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet, why faith destroys
I still remember your touch, after all
of this time every time I close my eyes
I go back again to that night; the small
softness of your fingers, all those dumb lies
I said to keep you as you grazed my skin
with your lips as our tongues touched. How could I
have kept you safe from my zealots? Cretin
you should have called me, not lover. Defy
us, we who burn witches and call it truth.
We who preach hate and call it love. Wake, wake,
love, in this aftermath, although entwined
around you, our Eden ends. Faith, like youth,
knows all. How can I claim that my heart breaks
when I let — when I’m a child, vain and blind?
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on edge of my skin
Tags
art, barrow wraith, edge of my skin, grave-fresh thighs, Japanese Shinto priestess, miko, orgasm, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Remembering that night makes desire
shake once again. I play it over in
my mind — the thrill of memory sets fire
to my nerves — I’m on the edge of my skin
aching to be set free with your mouth, hand,
tongue all that makes me feel that we did this
before, we’ll do this again. I expand
down your throat. When you part your grave-fresh thighs
I kiss all that I can find. Science still
can’t teach us if orgasms aren’t or are
human sublimity that we call faith.
I know that you came through the door to kill
me, I know that I love you: thief, bizarre
ghost girl, libido, love, barrow wraith.
18 Wednesday Dec 2013
Tags
black magic, calling this evil, learn your Latin, poem, Poetry, problem with dualism, sonnet, white magic
Where did you read this crap? Some fake shaman
selling pure bullshit by the pound? Nekros
means “dead.” Manteia means “divination.”
But the opposite isn’t medicus,
as in “healer,” it is fraus, as in “fraud.”
As in refusing the world of Spirit.
As in calling this evil; that sad, odd
faith that refuses all that does not fit
easily. Black? White? Dualism sucks.
If you don’t call on the dead to guide you
who do you call? The man-made gods who burn
witches? That’s like turning to the eunuchs
for sex advice. Embrace the dead, you who
will be one soon. Watch. Listen. Fucking learn.
17 Tuesday Dec 2013
Yuugure stared at the hulking she-demon chained to the stonewall. It still resembled, a bit, his darling Sayomi. It had her arms, her purple eyes, her mother-birthing tummy, but they were larger now, bestial in ways the human form was never intended to be. Her whole body was covered in soft fur, like that of a mountain boar, but impossibly red. The thing — she — was deformed, with the legs of a woman mixed up with those of some fiendish shadow, a spark of mist and hatred, muscled, hungering as she strained against the thick iron that held her.
Was it really still a “she”? Undoubtedly. Sayomi’s small breasts had transformed, her cunt grown obscene. What had once been legs were now curved like that of a goat. It was those legs that she had used to carry off a ten year-old village boy, only a year younger than Yuugure himself, like a lamb to the slaughter. Yuugure couldn’t bear to think about what the villagers had discovered when they finally tracked the beast to her lair. He had to get his Sayomi back.
The mountain demon glowered at him, her teeth bared as if she would consume him at the first opportunity. Yuugure found himself staring at its eyes — her eyes — glowing in the candlelight. They seemed so much like Sayomi’s at first glance, but were now twisted, transformed. They were eyes that wanted nothing more than to watch the world burn.
Sayomi had spent the holy night of Shimekazari, when each household would invite the kami in as sacred guests, far away from everyone else in the village. She almost never participated in Shinto festivities, spending her time alone in meditation, deep in the mountains. When she would return, as she always did, she would never talk about what had happened to her, preferring instead to hold Yuugure.s tiny body tight against her, telling him that she would never do anything to harm him. Her wolfish scent would intoxicate the boy, the warmth of her body lull him to sleep. At first all her talk was baffling. Now it was routine. This time, though, everything was different. When Yuugure had gone to the well to fetch water he found his lover, old enough to be his own mother, naked, crawling upon hands and knees from out of the dark forest, bloody and insane.
Insane? Of course; no human being who talked as she did could still be considered connected to the physical world.
“I did it,” she gasped. “I drank from an onibaba’s footprint.”
A what? An onibaba? The female ogre of fairy tales? What did that even mean? Instead of answering any of his questions Sayomi went into the house and fell into a magical sleep. The message had seemed cryptic at first but now he understood. Even an eleven year-old orphan could see that there had been a change in the older woman that day.
Sayomi was a Kokumajutsu-shi, a dark witch. A few neighbors knew of her ties to the spirit world and would come, from time to time, to beg her for favors, the sort that the local Shinto priests would always refuse to grant.
There was a lot that Yuugure did not know about his Sayomi except that she loved him and he loved her so he ignored her often dark mood swings and tendency to seek out the most taboo realms of the spiritual world, or so she would claim. That was the problem with using the dark arts to solve problems that her neighbors and fellow villagers should have been able to handle all by themselves. Often they would return, the sorry bastards, begging for her to lift whatever spell or blessing that they themselves had requested. Yet, despite all the damage mere mortals seemed to bring down upon their own heads, Sayomi had healed without pay or complaint everyone who wandered through her door, granting absolute discretion to all the village girls when they came to her in tears over pregnancies they did not want.
“Of course I believe in evil,” Sayomi once said. “Anyone who brings an unloved soul into this world of sin is committing evil. To give birth to something unwanted but forced to live? unloved? uncared for? Even the oni are not so cruel. Better to skip a reincarnation, come back in a new body that will be loved than to be born an orphan whose only fate is to starve to death or be sold into slavery. Any parent who would do less is not fit to be called human.”
Now, though, Yuugure’s lover was gone and the female oni was all that remained. When the boy walked too close she shot out a powerful arm that caused the thick cold iron chains, set into stone with huge bolts, to groan and complain. Each time that Yuugure stepped too close the demoness began to rage. The heat of her breath assaulted his face. Her red arms and legs had muscles her had never seen before, like twisted oak roots. Her fat lips and kissable mouth were now the jaws of a deathtrap.
This all had started months before. Sayomi had begun to run away at night. Yuugure had never really understood, assuming it had something to do with being an adult and her dark witchiers. At first her odd behavior was even a little exciting. She would go during the night and return at daybreak. When she did, she would take the boy to their bed. She was rough and wild, unlike anything she had shown him before, biting and holding him down as she forced his cock deep inside her body. She tore at his skin and licked wherever she could find exposed flesh. Her nipples would grow hard then, each time she mauled him. It was as if the night in the woods had left her ravenous and she would literally howl each time he orgasmed inside her.
Then there was the blood. Sayomi had gone out one night and like before she came home in a daze, unkempt and dirty. She had crawled into bed where he was waiting, already excited and hard, awaiting the moment that she would ravage him. There was something safe each time she did it, except that night when he looked at her bared teeth and saw that they were stained with blood. Yuugure screamed for his love to stop, that something dreadful was wrong, but she heedlessly mounted him. The head of his cock touched her inner lips and he could feel her immediately become even wetter. There was something wrong, this time, though. She crouched over him like a nightmare, eyes gleaming as she rammed her hips down, impaling herself on him. He was afraid this time, terribly afraid. His cock started to hurt as if her cunt were made up of nothing but thousands of tiny barbs and he cried out in pain but she still wouldn’t stop.
Afterward he cried as she slept next to him.
The next morning she had no memory of what had happened. She became quiet when he told her, his dark boy eyes running with tears, about the blood in her mouth and what she had done. Sayomi was never one to exaggerate, but her eyes showed deep fear as she held him and whispered over and over that she was sorry.
It was on that same day that Hidou, a neighbor and Sayomi’s good friend, knocked on their door. She had come wanting a protective charm for her eight year-old son. Sayomi had laughed and told Hidou that boys weren’t the ones who needed protection. Hidou shook her head and told them that there was a rumor that an oibaba were stealing away their village boys.
First it had just been farm animals that had been disappearing of late. A few people had blamed a wolf that had been seen in the mountains, but that all had changed when something that clearly walked on two feet had dragged away a screaming village child. The town was in an uproar and everyone was afraid. On the very hour of her visit Sayomi made Hidou a special talisman blessed by their Shinto priest and told her friend to make sure that her son should never take it off.
That was the day everything in Yuugure’s life changed. He was shocked when Sayomi secreted herself to the outer barn where the ancient chains were. She stood in a corner on that cold day, naked, shackles hanging loosely on her arms and legs and then sent Yuugure away, ordering the boy not to come into the barn for any reason.
That evening everything was quiet. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath. The sun began to set and Yuugure became afraid. The barn echoed with choked and muffled screams and the sick sound of ripping flesh and cracking bone. When Sayomi’s screams became a hideous roar, the boy crept into the barn to find — not Sayomi — but the onibaba, a real flesh and blood mountain demon, leering at him, steaming billowing out of her wicked mouth. Yuugure opened his mouth to scream in turn but no noise came forth. Sayomi’s breasts and cunt were still mostly human, made of the same powerful muscles as her legs and arms. Her face however was indeed the stuff of nightmare. Wide eyes and pointed horns poked out from the red fur that covered the rest of her body.
Yuugure ran from the room and hid in their bed, weeping at what had become of his beloved Sayomi. In the morning, he awoke to find the older woman in bed with him, back in her human form, sleeping in the throws of a fever-dream. For the rest of the day she lay unconscious. As the evening approached, though, she finally rolled over on her side and spoke to the boy.
“I have unnatural appetites.” Sayomi spoke hoarsely. “I have tried again and again to curb my hunger but it doesn’t work. I suffer and soon I will not be able to stop control myself from breaking loose and killing the first person I see. It might be one of our neighbors. It might be you. I need you to help me.”
“Haii! Anything I can do, please,” Yuugure pulled her muscled body as close as his thin arms allowed. Despite his fear feeling her smooth skin and warmth again calmed his heart.
“Find a dog or goat. Kill it for me. Then feed it to me when I am chained. Once the demon is fed perhaps then we can figure out a way to stop it.”
“Can you stop it?” Yuugure asked, stroking her aching body. “I can go bring the priest.”
“No.” Sayomi shook her head. “I have to do this myself. I can’t kill another innocent soul.”
“But you are so strong,” Yuugure began to kiss her face. “I know you can do anything. I’ll help too. I’ll do anything you ask.”
“I don’t deserve a boy like you.” Sayomi smiled. It was the first smile he had seen in days. It was the same smile that had bewitched him a year before that let her drag him away from the fire at the midsummer’s festivities. He had followed the strange, older woman into the shadows and was shocked when she let him take her. He had been a virgin before that night. Every time she smiled like that he knew that he would do it all over. Yuugure reached over and ran his hand up Sayomi’s thigh, exploring between her legs, touching her clit with his soft hands. She moaned a little and licked her lips.
“Please, Yuugure-chan. I’m tired. Being a boy-flesh crazed monster takes a lot of energy,” Sayomi began to roll away but he held her back in his arms and began to caress her even more.
“Then be still, oneesan,” the little boy teased, dipping his fingers into her hot, buttery wetness. Her body began to tense and relax as little waves of pleasure sloshed within. “Let me help you get rid of that demon in you.”
Sayomi began to breathe harder. She touched Yuugure’s naked skin as the age-old pleasures began to overwhelm her senses. “Don’t’ stop,” she pleaded.
“Do you want me to use my mouth?” Yuugure licked his pretty lips.
“Hai!” Sayomi was in ecstasy.
He drew his body down so that she could feel his young, boyish breath against her sodden girl-lips, the hard T-bone of her clit. She thrust her hips up, involuntarily. Parting her lips he moved all over with his tongue. Yuugure loved the way Sayomi tasted inside his mouth. She made an excellent teacher, so he took it slow at first and then faster, seeing just how deep his tongue could go. He wanted her cum now, to her pleasure to fill his mouth, just so he could hear how she would moan as she flooded because she always flooded and this time …
… when her shaking subsided, when he had swallowed everything, he crawled up and rested his head on her breasts so that he could hear her heart pound crazy. It gave him a thrill to know he made her heart race like that.
[to be continued] …
16 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on an open letter to south sudanese president salva kiir
Tags
an open letter, Mwen renmen pwezi, Nigeria Liquefied Natural Gas Prize, poetry movement, President Salva Kiir, South Sudanese poets, warrior poets
It is Saturday and I read
that you are putting down
a coupe attempt, I hope
it goes well but that is not
the reason I am writing
to you. The Nigeria Liquefied
Natural Gas Prize
for Literature has awarded
another award to someone
who is not South Sudanese
but somehow someone
thought that “Nigeria Liquefied
Natural Gas Prize” seemed
like a good title for a literary
award. Poetry is symbolic, it
can’t stop bullets or feed
starving children but it will draw
the world’s eyes to anything it touches.
It is time that the South Sudanese
have their own poetry movement,
artists drawn from every village,
every city, every refugee camp
who will let the world know what
is happening. I am not Sudanese
but I do know how to say “Mwen
renmen pwezi” in Juba Arabic.
A nation of poets will capture
the imagination of generations to
come. If there is anyway I can
help in bringing this about please
let me know. Blessings and cheers.
Z
16 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on [[i have lost my 3rd]]
eye my purpose my
direction if you
can’t be a good
example you might
as well be
a horrible warning
16 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on this
Tags
what fear keeps
you away only
this only
this only this