10 Friday Apr 2015
“Kafé, kasita non kafela et publia filii omnibus suis” — an invocation to allow one to enter someone’s dreams.
Dreams are coming to
the heel just outside,
the shadow in my sly-boot
box says so. This, too, is
a love poem and like all
brief solutions is already
fading. Meanwhile go
nowhere, do nothing.
Every motion wasted.
Finger this hole. On my
lips a sticky residue: jizz,
junk, slicked back hair.
Fleshpot vespers. Spooky
bird. I will enter your dream.
09 Thursday Apr 2015
“The bud/ stands for all things” – Galway Kinnell
After loss then the libido snaps back
sick and mad as before. I don’t know why.
Knuckles push into moss until – hunchbacked,
straining – I pry the bud apart. My thighs
soggy sorrow burn all orange glory.
What gods would trust a mouth that makes such Os?
Thorny lips … that curl up around all three
of my fingers … a butterfly … that glows
when it dips for nectar — No, won’t go on.
What’s wrong? I feel like I’m faking it. Porn
on a Thursday. After loss why this brief
horniness? Once my fingers are withdrawn
let the bud close, leaving behind thorn,
moss-grown verge and grief. The gods’ own grief.
09 Thursday Apr 2015
Tags
dead little things, erotic poetry, gnaw at me, left toe-cutting knife, Milady de Winter, poem, sonnet
I love that my fear lives under my bed.
I’ve been down there: torn condoms, used needles,
and my left toe-cutting knife. All the dead
little things I’ve loved and abandoned. Skulls
that will always be prettier than me.
Loose teeth. I’ve swallowed at least six. The jaw
of one Milady de Winter. What she
did — no, spoilers, sweetie. The things that gnaw
at me aren’t what you think. The Internet
where I live: “None of us fuck, see? Sex is
ugly. None of your free, hippy love shit
here,” as Johnny told Nancy. It’s that threat,
you might become mine, I might become his.
Strange how just a floor can become a pit.
01 Wednesday Apr 2015
Carve me a toothpick; I have one curled hair
stuck in-between my incisors. These chapped
hips, this silicon knob with its horsehair
tail, these boots. Have I ridden you? or “tapped
your ass,” as Butch Lisette once claimed? Of course
not. Please forgive my friends, they are … so young,
obsessed with sending nude selfies. They’re coarse
little things, amusements. But you? Your tongue
itches to taste this, no? Peace. Come closely.
Pull up your trousers. Look out the window.
Be still, pet. What do you see? The merchandise
of lust; the night hums with it. But for me
I’m done with stroking needy libidos.
That’s how much I adore you: more than vice.
31 Tuesday Mar 2015
“Suckle my flesh.” There should be more, of course,
something about, “your kisses on my clit,”
“your two fingers inside,” and “my voice, hoarse,
urgent,” “my flesh sweating, flushed.” I omit
the rest because this isn’t about that.
Somewhere a girl sleeps on flagstones, under
thatch-roof and dry-stone walls. A witch’s brat
who knows nothing about lust, that other
magic. No, not even that. So, what then?
Quote from the Torah, Bible or Koran
about female nature being sinful?
Hell no! We go down to the beach, again,
naked breasts wearing shadows of a tan,
watching waves rush in and out like a bull.
20 Friday Mar 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on fantasma guloso [greedy ghost]
“I had almost forgotten how good it is to be licked – kissed – smeared –”
Be for me the language
that redeems me.
Mortal flesh is weak, but
I am apocalyptic: she-devil
in heat.
I am your horny sister
cursed with
chastity.
“Greedy Ghost.” (desire
takes shape) “Feel this wet tongue
slide and your juice returns
to condition of the living.”
][][
“Eu quase havia esquecido como é bom ser lambido – beijado – lambuzado –”
Seja comigo uma língua
que me redime.
Carne mortal é fraca, mas
eu sou apocalíptica: um diaba
no cio.
Eu sou o seu tesão irmã
amaldiçoado com
castidade.
“Fantasma guloso.” (desejo
toma corpo) “Sentir a língua molhada
deslizar enquanto o teu suco retorna
à condição de vivos.”
23 Monday Feb 2015
Tags
circles kissing water, I'm terrible at saying thank you, ofsoliloquies, poem, Poetry, rootless, sonnet
“take me to the poppy field, I asked my/ lover”
— — ofsoliloquies
[S]ister stalk the root taken from my jaw,
flowers keel over, the hothouse frame cracks
and curve. What you give I cannot name, gnaw,
wake or smoke your bouquets down to their flax
and heart. At the water’s edge I’m earthbound
but there — — “circles kissing water” — — spirit
troubling surface. Your words the good wound,
the wind that drags my hoop skirt and corset
from me. Point toward whiskey benediction,
up to the neck. Fill my jaw-hole, waiting
for the holy holy. Press nerve, milky
weed, cracked lips, reluctant waves suck crimson
down what you give rootless I blow letting
me name troubled waters holy holy
17 Tuesday Feb 2015
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on amazonomachy: the knight of swords
Tags
Sometimes I like making cards for imaginary Tarot decks that no one else will ever see. According to Rider-Waite the Knight of Swords is associated with, among other things, war and wrath. I just love the expression on her face.
16 Monday Feb 2015
rain the birds start
up the practice of small
deaths and fleshly
leaves part
inside the bearded
iris song song sticky fever
02 Monday Feb 2015
poppies wept
swept between
the waves at
dawn over the
stone pier mist
increased I
ceased out from
the dune’s salt
tongue past the
creek its pale
waves dragging
rain froth and
downfall and
for a moment
passing through
his hunger-song
I heard a name
a monstrous
palindrome the
gulf’s firth a basin
shaman By then
I’d learned of the
Ampullae of
Lorenzini The
shark is a tune
a pychedelicacy
and you darling red
heart a mere morsel
memories of my ghost sista 