Category Archives: Erotic

um tarot suja: the fool

22 Friday Feb 2013

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Um Tarot Suja: Fool [final draft]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [final draft]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #1]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #1]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #2]

Um Tarot Suja: Fool [rough draft #2]

I had been working on a tarot deck a couple of years ago, Um Tarot Suja, a sex magic deck (or at least that was the idea going into the project). I wanted to stay relatively faithful to the Rider-Waite deck. So, as they say in The Sound of Music, we’ll start at the beginning.

It helps me, at least, to think of the tarot as a narration of a spiritual journey, each card progressing down the path, as it were. The first card, The Fool, has a care-free youth starting out with his/her head in the sky, not paying attention to the abyss at they are about to plunge into. At their feet is a small animal (usually a yapping dog) which tries to get the Fool’s attention. We’ve all been there, starting out on a project full of excitement and idealism, having no idea what is in store for us.

My first two attempts (the bottom two cards) had the Fool stepping out into the (literal) darkness of the unknown. There isn’t a cliff, just the nothingness of the unknown, stepping into a blackness that has no form or shape. In the two cards both women have their hands stretched out to their spirit guides, a cat and a fox (what can I say? I like cats and foxes) and while technically either card to constitute as a Fool, neither really satisfied.

The final draft has the Fool transported to a unpleasant, godforsaken alien landscape (Utah) and the abyss, the start of our journey, is a stairway to (wait for it) the heavens. The Fool must take her first step up the stairs and into the unknown, accompanied by her guide, but once she does she can go anywhere in the universe she wishes, both literally and metaphorically.

[crypter] [crypter] [crypter]

22 Friday Feb 2013

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gynoid

“Crypter, crypter, crypter.” “Clear.” It is right

here. The whorl in my ear. The whirl in my
dread. A smear of Morning Star by starlight.

A touch of evil, perhaps. Which is why
it is hard to believe in it. Evil.

I’ve taught it to sit, roll over, play dead.
I read it Shakespeare. It has no menstrual
cycles, though it leaks. What flows is blood red
and grease. Gears. Oil. It’s queer innards. But “it”?

Designed to look female. I’ve been inside.

Touched its cogs. Tightened screws. It just says, “shit,

man, a machine is a machine …” Its cried.

I know that. Tears are also tears. I know

there is more here than chrome and an afro.

harlem’s passions

21 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Hang it [up]. Fifteen and catechistic.
Sixteen and masochistic. Seventeen
with your fatalism. Eighteen odd sick
years. I’m down on Harlem, who sighs between
my thighs. Soixante neuf, as the French like it.
We like it too. Harlem runs her fingers
through my hair. Somewhere out there the spirit
of the southern witches is singing hers
to life, “twice burned britches.” Aren’t we all, ma’am?
sing for Marie Laveau on St. John’s Eve.
Sing for Harlem’s passions and the red lamb
that rides the night of the ram. Sing and leave.
We’re done. Harlem is all over my face.
Lick me clean, lover, down to the last trace.

* * *

Notes:

Marie Laveau (1794 – 1881) was a New Orleans priestess of Voodoo, renowned in her time throughout all of Louisiana.

St. John’s Eve is on June 23-24.

nox diva

20 Wednesday Feb 2013

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I am the mildest of creatures, spell-bound,
gossamer, a thorn jutting. The nox diva

inside the mushrooms growing on the mound
where I buried you. First there is nausea,
sweats, my gut turning. Then you open up

inside my skull-bone; a whiskey cactus,
melting. A mushroom is like a polyp;

I’ve found both on you. I turn, like Horace,
into your well-mannered court slave. Ghost slave.

Slave of a ghost. Each time you slide into
my mouth you leave part of yourself behind.

One day I’ll consume you all. Then your grave
will stand empty. I can’t let go of you,

no-no, even if I was so inclined.

* * *

Notes:

Nox diva is my attempt at translating the phrase “night goddess” into Latin.

Horace was one of Rome’s greatest poets, one whom the English poet John Dryden dismissed as “a well-mannered court slave.”

what i saw

18 Monday Feb 2013

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Was there blood. I didn’t know what I saw.
My breath gurgled down deep inside my chest.

I saw — what. First time you unclasped your bra
for me, your nephew, I saw your right breast,

upturned, beads of sweat dripping down. First time
you pulled your jeans around your knees I saw

your tight parted curls that tasted of thyme,
amber and lust under my tongue. Cat’s paw

tattoo, clit ring, missing toe. I saw all
of this. But now blood. Everywhere on me.

My blood. “What happened?” I whispered. But you
silenced me with your lips. My breath: a small

rusty gasp. “I am here to set you free,
naughty boy,” she said. “My foolish nephew.”

gran tabú

17 Sunday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

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I knew you way back when you had owl feet
and dry breasts. Then you married that bastard

Adam and it all went to hell. Discreet
sex while you were married was fun. I heard

what they said about you. It’s like when they
go on about Yeshua; they’re clueless,
aren’t they? fucking clueless. You’re made from clay?
my ass. Only mud pies come from that mess.
Mud pies and goleems. Liliti, you flew
to the Red Sea to get away. You knew
they would never leave a howling taboo

alone. Gran tabú: like when you told me

about Adam, the pig, getting ready

to cum all over his “little wifey.”

* * *

unfit

16 Saturday Feb 2013

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They say that the cruel one must now depart
at dawn. Come back to bed, love. I’ve been cruel
but not like that. I am shallow. My heart
knows that it will be judged by the jackal
headed god Anubis one day. “Unfit;”
I am sure that will be what I am told.
“Unfit” gets you consumed by vile Ammit,
the soul-eater. Tomorrow I’ll be cold
as a crypt. Tonight, though, I burn. Stay here.
They say you can’t get to heaven depraved.
What’s a bruise? a bite? I’ll mark your flesh mine.
And then what comes between us I will smear
across your face. I don’t care to be saved.
Damnation is also an act divine.

* * *

Note:

Anibus is the jackal-headed god associated with mummification and the afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion.

Ammit is a funerary deity, a female demon in ancient Egypt; part lion, part hippopotamus and part crocodile. Her titles included, “Devourer of the Dead,” “Eater of Hearts” and “Great of Death.” Her job was eating souls judged by Anibus as corrupt.

thirsty beasts

15 Friday Feb 2013

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thirsty beasts

They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.

deathblow

13 Wednesday Feb 2013

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"For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?" -- Amy Lowell

“For the man who should loose me is dead, fighting with the Duke in Flanders, in a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?” — Amy Lowell

* * *

“i too am a rare
pattern. as i wander down
the garden paths …”
— Amy Loewell, Patterns

And you answered, “it shall be as you said.”

And I’m dead and you think of my deathblow

as you walk up and down with brushed forehead
on our garden path, giving way to snow,
in your stiff gown, gorgeously arrayed, boned
and stayed. But not as Amy Lowell wrote down.

You’re no lady and I no colonel, stoned
on cheap morphine, in a French trench. I drowned,

not in Flanders, but at sea. You’ll grow old
walking our path; but I will be nineteen
evermore. If it had been death at war
and not a mistake, would that have consoled
you? As if a bullet wound and gangrene

would make such a difference for evermore.