Category Archives: Erotic

GNOSIS

21 Friday Jul 2017

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After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.

It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.

Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones

hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones

leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate

wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —

one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.

clutch

17 Monday Jul 2017

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Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.

on your knees

15 Saturday Jul 2017

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When pulled out the plug left a hole that gaped.
It had been twisted — into the deeper

niche of your nether regions — I had taped
down the battery wire to your inner

thigh, set the vibrator to vex and ire
and left you, as you had asked, fidgeting

all day long. Some of us get desire,
some can only give. There are gods, dying,

who get prayed to less. This four-fingered thumb
can plug, but not with the current that ran

through you. I found you, later, on your knees.
Lilith’s blood. “This pain will give me freedom,”

you moaned as I took the plug in one hand
and pulled amid your prayers and pleas.

welt

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

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I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-

Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish

Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.

Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;

mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches

inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow

all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.

throwing shade

06 Thursday Jul 2017

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Breathe on your neck and your hairs stand erect.

You are wet like moss dribbling on rock

with kick-boots, leather jacket, dawn’s mohawk.

I love your brawn, the strength that you project.

You are thick in every way that I’m plump.

I drag your knife across my shoulder blade

and all my pale flesh opens. You throw shade

better than my friends. I’m all sad thighs, rump

and queer bulges, yet still I bleed. I gag

you, face-fucking your skull until we choke

and say this is shit. We laugh. It’s all shit

that we drown in spliff. We’re called dyke and fag,

Hera’s bum-boys. I love you. There’s pale smoke

between us — drifting up — into orbit.

gash and harvest

04 Tuesday Jul 2017

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At first thrust you gasped; cello’s tight sinew
snapping as you opened up, your haunches

splayed, your fingers in the grass, then you drew
your head back, whiplash, and begged with curses,

“¡fóllame el culo!” You made an awed
pucker at either end, a mewl and grunt

into a whine, as the curved bow seesawed
inside you. I named gods (manic, urgent)

who lived for this. What else was there? Later
we curled, sucked from the hookah. Opium

imbued the air. We could’ve been a prayer
to an old life, old death. Cum and conjure.

Gash and harvest. Suture and orgasm.
Instead we’re what the gods left out: horror.

][][
note:
In Spanish, “Fóllame el culo,” translates into, “Fuck my ass.” Of all the instruments that I will never learn how to play the cello is what I set my words to.

spill

12 Monday Jun 2017

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Slowly summer ebbed away. There was bright
heat, sometimes green. You tutored me each day.

I was slow and you were frenzied. You would bite
my neck, scratch my back; while, “mientras te

estoy montando,” in your dad’s bathroom.
In two months you’d go to college; until

then I bent you double, pierced you to your womb,
ruined your throat until we would both spill

all that was inside. I will always be
this: dull and dim. I couldn’t follow you,

despite the español that you taught me.
I can’t find you since I’m without virtue

and you’re as real as an acid flashback.
Memory of what I want, hold me back.

][][

note:

In Spanish, “mientras te estoy montando,” translates as, “while I’m riding you.”

uncouth

09 Friday Jun 2017

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I say, “She who starts with an abattoir’s

knife ends with allure.” That’s cheap. Perhaps. Love

curls in me, though: muscles, sweat, cum, bargain-

floor booze. You trace all my bruises and scars.

I’m off my tits on mandrake root, foxglove

and wormwood. Perhaps love is an omen.

Perhaps love begins as a Stone Butch; ends

in glory — We start all this with someone

who can break us by accident. My friend

who walks on goaty-girl legs and cloven

hooves, who says that she’s an uncouth butcher —

Hacker of meat — Curved fire — Gloriosa

blooms — Riotgrrl — Afropunk — “El olor

de mi coño” — Vulva Furiosa.

}{}{

note:

“El olor de mi coño” translates into “the odor of my cunt”

naturally

09 Friday Jun 2017

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We want to know that the kink is still

there. Now? No, soon. I drink so that I don’t

think so much. Hashish, Vodka and Advil

deletes memories. Who says that I won’t

tell how I failed at the Slam; this stutter,

that lisp, no one wanted to hear such noise.

There was no beat, just radio anger

in my head. Those raw static wires destroy

rhymes which neither strut nor slide. Praise the holes

in my skull — What was kink but our hoodwink

over failure? — Nothing comes naturally

to me — Not even joy over our soul’s

loss, our grief’s flesh. Now? I don’t want to think

except for Absinthe, Gin and Peyote.

milking

26 Friday May 2017

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You with the double-hung belly. You made

a sound like, “sissk,” each time I drained you dry.

We’ve played Asmodeus and the Milkmaid

far too often. For a week we were high

as fuck eating euphoriants — (bhang-bhang

and hash rolled in jam) which gave your breast milk

the odd taste of sweet kif, gin and ginseng —

while I sucked stains from inside your bra’s silk

after each of Harley’s feedings. Each romp

remained perverse; my head buried between

your thighs, fingers on your nipples, milking,

tripping balls, the bed shaking, you calling

out to the gods prayers devout and obscene

as you came; soaking my face like a swamp.