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29 Monday Aug 2022
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on The Emperor
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29 Monday Aug 2022
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on The Empress
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29 Monday Aug 2022
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on The High Priestess
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29 Monday Aug 2022
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on The Witch: Onibaba
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29 Monday Aug 2022
Posted in Illustration and art, tarot
≈ Comments Off on The Fool
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20 Saturday Aug 2022
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fae, lewd eldritch horror, poem, Poetry, roots, sonnet, uncanny sex, unwombed thing
Twilit sea. Twilit swamp. Twilit bedroom.
Uncanny times. Uncanny sex; since all
sex is uncanny. From womb to the tomb,
I’ll show you. Go down by the broken wall,
down by the ash tree’s roots: blood and mud, clay
and moss. I’ll show you your loss. Unwombed thing;
unborn ash and ember when the moon’s fae
is on you. Before your birth blood, stirring,
the way all chaos stirs, forced you into
physical form, you lived with me, dearest.
It’s why I’ve been abstaining for thirteen
years. You were my loam, my shadowy blue
soil. I was your roots, your muscled cock, lust.
Now you’re flesh and I’m an eldritch obscene.
Notes:
While popularized by Lovecraft, the term, “eldritch,” means something strange or unnatural, especially in the way that it inspires fear … which, I suppose, means, “Eldritch Horror,” is a bit redundant.
15 Monday Aug 2022
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buckle, cunnilingus, drowning bliss, erotic poetry, moon tide, poem, Poetry, sea poem, sonnet, the sea, with your tampon between my teeth
I learned to walk when the rolling sea ceased
to roll like the earth. I learned to sleep on
billows when you taught me about your creased
lips that tasted of lime. With your tampon
between my teeth I ached for that other
low tide. I didn’t blame the moon, that time,
when you pulled your swimsuit aside. “Lick her.”
I won’t blame it now. Let the sea’s stars climb
the sky, I will not drown while going down.
Without sea legs I drank my fill between
your hips. Rising. Falling. Groaning
of a ship’s hull about to buckle. Drown
with your tampon between my teeth. Sea-queen.
Argos-eyed. You are the vast Deep, moaning.
29 Wednesday Jun 2022
Tags
catboat, erotic poetry, finger fucking, Gran Frè, Haitian Creole translation, Jacmel, Paul Gauguin, poem, sonnet
Water laps against the hull, against swells,
against ebbing. In times of fight or flight
this tricked-out catboat has served very well;
enough room for us to curl up, out of sight,
in its bottom. Slow hours; your back pressed
against my chest, your bottom pressed against
my cock, my fingers pressed against your nest
of curls. Each time your nipples and clit tensed.
Each time you groaned, “Wi, gran frè!” Paul Gauguin
would have loved seeing you squirt up sea spray;
your blue-coral hue soaking my fingers ––.
When we sail back to Jacmel, your cousin
will frown at these new stains, at how you sway
as you walk, at how your smile now lingers.
][][
Notes:
In Haitian Creole, Gran Frè translates into, “Big Brother.” Jacmel is a port city on Haiti’s southern coast. A catboat has a single sail set well forward in its hull. Winslow Homer’s 1870s painting, “Breezing Up (A Fair Wind),” features a catboat riding into the wind. Paul Gauguin was a French Post-Impressionist artist whose work featured Polynesian women in various stages of undress. 1900s Paris couldn’t get enough.
20 Wednesday Apr 2022
Tags
Azalea Crypt, bent moon, conked smile, erotic poetry, pestilence, poem, Poetry, sonnet, wet dreams, where nightmares go to die
Rise as the nightly scourge of a sanguine
people—Illusive as a ghostly stroke
across one’s cheek. Not a spring-heeled villain;
be that other sort of pestilence—smoke
smitten, unfettered, the Azalea Crypt
of quick caresses that makes flesh quiver.
I think of the moon bent; how cum once dripped
from your smile. A conked smile that grows fainter
in my mind as all memories grow faint
when you’re no longer haunted by a bent
figure pressed to the window. I know why
you’re gone. A scourge would need to be a saint
to slake my passions. For nightmares hellbent
on wet dreams I am where they go to die.
22 Tuesday Mar 2022
Tags
downcast ghast, Eros, erotic poetry, hueless meringue, Lilith, poem, Poetry, reviled wild child, serpentine, sonnet, stunted feet, woebegone eidolon
Yes, let all dried pied things that hunt beneath
hueless meringues, that kink about and crawl
upon claws or stunted feet in the heath,
let them all come. Let the dead things that brawl
with the living come, too. The fell things cast
out who walk in the wild woods by their wild
lones. I want them all. Every downcast ghast;
woebegone eidolon; every reviled
wild child. My bed is big. My appetite
curious and my hunger fabulous.
Mortal hordes bore me. Nations of grundy
prigs priss want away. But passion, delight
bred, its fire stirred by Lilith and Eros,
is worth it. Here, serpentine lust, take me.