21 Tuesday Aug 2018
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the comrade/ twin whose palm would bear a lifeline like our own:/ decisive, arrowy,/ forked lightning of insatiate desire.
21 Tuesday Aug 2018
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With his venom/ Irresistible/ and bittersweet/ that loosener/ of limbs, Love/ reptile-like/ strikes me down.
Sappho (trans. Mary Barnard)
21 Tuesday Aug 2018
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Under this temple there is a well so ancient/ it will abide the mouldering of the floor./ This night, for healing, I’ll tear up/ the flagstones.
21 Tuesday Aug 2018
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curtailed, dillydally, gaunt haunt, hashish, mess of brawn, poem, Poetry, slur of rapture, sonnet
Bless dawn. Breathe in fumes: quagmire or morass.
Frenzy with bong, with thong, with rot that smells.
Not fit for each, for pressing on. Blown glass,
twisted cotton, a necklace of conch shells.
Mess of brawn. The stress of faun legs, satyr
hips, the slur of rapture. But I — rudely
stamped and curtailed — greet dawn with the glamour
of meat past prime. Let me dillydally,
me loaf. None are waiting for me. None want
to see me stoned, clad in only a lash.
Rattle of shells and glass. Rattle of brawn
and bone. If this is frenzy its the gaunt
haunt of throat-fucking sort. Like fame, like hash,
like all the horrors that we’ll ever spawn.
20 Monday Aug 2018
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blow job, erotic poetry, poem, quim, sex slush sounds, shush, sonnet
Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow
downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem
lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.
Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.
Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No
sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —
that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow
maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee
as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.
Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”
This is a game. I play to win because
you play to lose. To be used on impulse
with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.
Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.
18 Saturday Aug 2018
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beastly comforts, bleat me, bull girl, erotic poetry, kablooey, kiss crazy, poem, rugby, scrum, sonnet
Fat “B” in “balsamic.” — As in, the noise
you make glazed — “B” in “burst” and “kablooey.”
“Oui, spurt.” Beastly comforts. Raspy tomboy’s
face gets splattered just the same. “Oui, rugby.”
“B” as in “butch” with “beef shoulders.” Notchy
hips. Half dollar scar from scrum, rucks and mauls.
Curvy sinner heat. Makes us kiss-crazy.
Makes you shimmy out of your shorts. “Oui, brawls
in bed,” you call this. Hunched blood apple. Stained
bruises. Broken rib. — You could break me. Bleat
me. Make me go blind. — What does the tattoo’d
“B” on your thigh mean? You never explained
standing in my bath. All bull-girl athlete.
Brawler of beds. Insatiable and crude.
13 Monday Aug 2018
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cinders, dripping roots, lovesick, lovesick ghosts might, poem, Poetry, sonnet, Toute la nuit, Vernal equinox
Rive as I reach your core — primordial
fornication sprung from the dripping roots
of the world tree, cum and splinter. Vernal
equinox. “Toute la nuit.” Dusk fruit’s
marrow. I know something about stirring
the tree’s flurry. I, too, have been lovesick.
These scars are not from others. The slicing
of my flesh I do myself, just to pick
at scabs. Burn stumps. Lightning strikes. I despoiled
that gap, gouged out half my soul. A rough ride,
Oui, but it can be done. You want passion
and I want …? to sink into your roots: coiled,
packed, tight. All my metaphors leave you pried
loose, pulped with cinders, tattered, all riven.
12 Sunday Aug 2018
I have followed the asphalt of your spine’s
rough mile; on down by swelter-greased steepness;
by back alley’s cant; by your obscure shrine’s
massive quaking hills — into your darkness
— shivering dark. This red-tongue landscape.
Tatterhood. Gaped girl-thing in dark jungle.
I must gauge this myth by the span and shape
of your splayed-out hips, the taste of your skull,
where your fox-headed guide leads me to play.
To pray at your shrine — to out fox the fox —
to gauge your gape stretched lush and surreal.
I’ll breathe in your dark, your ideal. The way
city’s breath makes a park real — or a box
breathing in the ground makes broken bones real.
11 Saturday Aug 2018
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but the anus loves/ poetry/ & is prolific …
10 Friday Aug 2018
This glum bedlam. This sober and sexless
essence. This — I gave up to get better.
Others kiss. Others fuck. Others say, “Yes.”
Recall slick thighs, clenched teeth; what came after.
Recall, too, that I was once someone’s balm.
Sodden and gorged. Crafted in beauty, formed
in lust. Salve for a burning heart. Maelstrom
in those tender hollows. To be transformed
like this. To be sloppy in my moans. Curl
of lip. Nails stubbed. What came after heaving
upon sweat-soaked sheets making chit-like squirrel
grunts. What came much later with abstaining.
Why did you let your squirrel-cry come undone?
Even the morning breeze feels forsaken.
memories of my ghost sista 