Category Archives: Erotic

despite

01 Thursday Aug 2019

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Gorged on hope you forget your place. Desire
won’t save you. If you’re the stuff of dreams then

you’re a safe flame for those afraid of fire
… a vague vulgarity. Who’d ever sin

on your behalf? There is no Orpheus
for you to sing you out of hell. Your place

is to warn others that all the lewdness
in the world feels most often like disgrace

and woe. Smut won’t save you. All this is true,
but I still give thanks for smut. I praise those

who’ve praised me with their libidos; who’ve taught
me lust sublime and passion’s true virtue …

I love that, despite all my griefs and woes,
despite feeling so broken and distraught.

devotion

17 Wednesday Jul 2019

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They don’t bring horned gods home. In forest, in
trance, garbed in garlands … a slow cavorting

flame in lush curled-black leaves. There’s no sin
to be the chosen one, no crime pricking

yourself on flesh callous as oak. Do you
still think of what we did as devotion?

Do your nipples still stiffen thick? Mine do.
Gods are man-made. I’m no different. Most shun

these acts in time, for I burn a queer fire,
my tongue pressed in the middle. I’m at odds

with how I was born: abandoned in green …
I don’t serve faith, only function. The “sire”

in your desire, which dies, just like old gods,
once it’s no longer so strange or obscene.

crosscut

28 Friday Jun 2019

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I could not sleep in such heat and what dream
came was no dream. Santísima Muerte

parted her robes to press her wet blaspheme,
as priests call all cunts, to my lips. Doomsday

tastes like death in heat. “Tu madre,” she said.
“Chinga tu madre.” Once lust couldn’t carve

through this thick air, couldn’t slash through what bled
from these lips. Have faith, you said. See? You starve.

Who has fed you like I do? — The riot
in your heart knows what you want. The chaos

that dreams of dissection loves you, too. Press
that blunt tongue here, in my groove, my crosscut.

Stroke, you woke with that taste; lust born from loss,
born from death, lovesick, lifting up her dress.

NOTES:
As a personification of death and guardian of marginalized people Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte (Our Lady of Holy Death) is a folk saint found in Mexico and Mexican-American Catholicism. Chinga tu madre is, of course, one of the few things Santísima Muerte (Most Holy Death) can get away with saying, since death is the mother of us all.

essence

09 Sunday Jun 2019

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Locked in her bathroom, her dirty hamper’s
pheromones bewitching while our fragrance,

once stirred by my tongue sunk in your pleasures,
stirs in the air, too: skunk-spice-herb. Essence

of what we once were. I dream of hemlock,
hash and cum pooled around your collarbone

haunting cleavage once wrapped around my cock
bud of your cunt’s bouquet a low down drone

drenched. When she knocks on the door the fragment
that is you flees. Where? Somewhere far above

me. You forgot? I keep remembering
what we once were: lascivious as scent,

ethereal as a ghost who’s found love,
desperate as this bust-ass flesh still searching.

offhand

02 Sunday Jun 2019

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two figs testicle fat sat in my hand
come I offered there is a cunt inside

run your tongue all through it I said offhand
come back here after school you’ve been hogtied

before waiting through classes for misfit
kisses that’ll split you wide like fruit you bruise

when played with so carelessly but once split
all that soft sweet meat with plum and pink hues

tastes just like yours right before you climax
before your homework bites hard this hardcore

meaty sweet comes urgent takes what we need
with spice and ginger with cum and hot wax

comes with what’ll help you through this sophomore
year lots of butt-stuff you said lots of weed —

“sho’ good”

01 Saturday Jun 2019

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I have no trance-technique to sync sections,

those phat lobes, in my brain. No third wondrous

eye. No prolonged visions. Just perversions.

Just my name, tattooed between curvaceous

hips. Just my taste, etched on tongues. The gods’ thirst

for faith is upon us — “It feelsh sho’ good …”

you groaned when your root and sacral gates first

opened — return to that feeling. Childhood

scars. Good wounds. Was your first out of body

experience your first orgasm? Now,

just like then, lust is the key. Lust’s havoc.

Lust’s faith. We’ll cum as one. Our souls’ juicy

journey: it’s not just shamans who know how

to roll one hell of a shamanic fuck —

cypress

25 Saturday May 2019

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After you swallowed you told me to wipe
my cock in your spectral hair. A spirit

bound to the swamp, you’re both pungent and ripe,
horny and dead. It’s queer how your corset

and silk bloomers can still slide right off. Queer
how I can skull-fuck your throat, that somehow

all which splatters on your neck and brassiere
might have brought forth life once, but never now.

“I long for love’s wet heat,” your tombstone read.
“Debauch me quick, spirit sweet.” The whole, ‘weak

flesh, weak soul’, is bullshit, you said. Pious
get pissed that sex doesn’t stop once you’re dead.

Nothing stops. You grind your swamp on my face;
tree of your lust shaking, your cunt’s red cypress.

caper

18 Saturday May 2019

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I fear this souvenir, this keepsake, this
dismay. I still crave. Growing up, both lewd

and shy, it twisted me; that heft and hiss
of wind at sea, that crudeness. Drunk and nude.

Lovesick and naked. Others made it feel
easy. What I got went deeper than scars,

deeper than flesh unwanted. — Sex appeal
overflowed, but not here. Girls who loved Mars.

Boys who loved Venus. What I took away
was a need for both … or neither. Dunno.

Their gift to me, to you, to us. To all
of us who fall in love alone. Dismay

is still a poor substitute. Where they flow
I still drip. Where they caper I must crawl.

heyday

17 Friday May 2019

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No, I tell you. Our myth. Our love. Each night
after all, after heyday, after change

(sun spent into flowers) and dimday’s bright
chorus (swallows and bats), after our strange

chorale (split-ears, stump-fucks: let the chaste scoff),
we’ll go on all fours (think: rouge, ink, fishnets).

We’ll ball through mist. For some we’re a turn-off.
They turn us off, click-click, like TV sets —

Others want what we have. Hot hours drop. Cool
throated stir. Moonshine and hollyhock blunts.

Grass stains in the dark. Our spluttering mewl.
You can’t turn us off. We’re what the chaste hunt.

We’ve cocked seething coals, cunted our love myth,
cauterized with discord, with dark world, with—

sissyboy pale

16 Thursday May 2019

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After your parents kicked you out, you hid
all month long in my dorm room. “Feminine

wiles ain’t me th’n.” Yis. After your dad forbid
you from seeing her all that we called fun

came down to cashed bowls, beer cans and bi porn.
“Na vat aghjik e,” your dad said. “She’s bad.”

Some nights we got to smuggle your lovelorn
girlfriend in. — It’s hard to have a triad

with just two. In the shower: her toffee,
your bronze, my sissyboy pale. Nothing lasts,

though: just footnotes. Sister? Lover? Other?
What were we? Best friends. That’s enough for me.

Twenty-eight days. Lilith, guide to outcasts,
at long last, did your daughters find shelter?

][][

NOTE:
There is a special ring in hell for abusive parents who cast out their queer children. Know the words that will get used against you so that they have no power. In Armenian, “she’s a bad girl,” gets translated into, “na vat aghjik e” (նա վատ աղջիկ է), as in: “bad girls are more fun/ vat aghjiknery aveli zvarchali yen” (վատ աղջիկները ավելի զվարճալի են). My broken broken vocabulary.