Category Archives: Poetry

drink you dry

05 Monday Aug 2013

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And we are physical shape; to give voice,
to feel, to give pause, I brush out your hair
(no there was no hairbrush, only a choice
to comb my fingers through the empty air
where your hair might once have been). So tonight
I hope you will not be disappointed.
And since I’ve drunk from your gash of sunlight
I think I’ve become sad at your wasted
beauty. I have a purple bruise on one
ankle. True. I don’t know you as keenly
as I thought I did. I have grown remote
under my skin. No frenzy. Please listen.
Once I drank you dry but now I simply
gag on the rose left blooming in my throat.

wily weird sisters

05 Monday Aug 2013

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Don’t trust stories where boys, down in the kelp,
steal seal-skins from nude girls – they all end grisly.
Only a wily weird sister can help
romance a seal-girl. Go out to the sea
in a cow-hide boat. She will stand, murmur
love spells to the waves. The seal will surface,
then climb on board. A watery cat-purr
is sign of a selkie stirred. Seamless
is her fleshy skin, still, she wriggles out
as you cuddle her head and your sister
grips her hips, her mouth on her slit-pout,
licking up a storm. A seal-girl lover
will want you both, will soak your lips and chin.
That’s how you drive a seal out of her skin.

NOTE:

Stories and legends of sea spirits that live as seals in the ocean but have the ability shed their skin to become human on land can be found throughout Iceland, the Shetlands, the Orkneys, Northern England, Scotland and Ireland. The film The Secret of Roan Inish (1994) was based on such a myth.

sugar on the tongue

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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In the candle light you fix your slack hair.
The rose oil you rubbed on each of your breasts
has been sucked off or was it the cold air
that made your nipples erect? What suggests
passion? The way each swollen lip attests
to our kisses? Your back still holds finger
nail marks, as if your skin made slight protests
during the heat of passion. This tender
night is like sugar on the tongue, sugar
that burns the blood. Sugar to slowly lick
off. Sit in your bath, another’s moisture
gathers on your bare skin. Let my tongue flick
everywhere, licking your sugar, making
you melt, climax like candle wax burning.

husk thorn

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Secret garden, wild grassland and brambles;
I’ve strayed between the highlands of your wilds,
seeking your sweet fruit in bittersweet curls.
Virgin woods? whatever, nothing defiles
you more than a dry spell when husk thorns reign.
The sun burns through your bush, dries your puddles,
and your poor untasted fruit prays for rain.
I’ve been among poppies, tasted thistles,
slept with foxtail. Like the horny goat, weeds
are no problem. Your curls part at my kiss.
Your red chaparral flushes green. Big flood
coming. You are, too. My tongue tweaks and kneads
your clit. First you dew my face, then you mist,
gush and geyser, drenching like sticky blood.

pearl tongue

04 Sunday Aug 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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Call it what you will, this soul called pleasure.
Button, nub, bald girl in a boat, pearl tongue,
jelly bean, pea pod, sweet spot, pink sugar
plum, moose knuckle, the box with the low-slung
jewel. The clit: here be hoodoo. Among
some this is where all magic gets cracking.
Fairy fire from your kiss as your tongue clung
to her girl flesh, as your tongue tongued. Tonguing.
Grinding. Clits like red cherries and fresh fruit.
Clits like queer books. A clit like a music
box, a song. A clit like sorrow’s bloodroot
for the unknown gods. A clit like lipstick
smear. Bush fire. Call it her goddess. Call it
your bliss. Call it soul-joy. Call it your clit.

bless me with all

03 Saturday Aug 2013

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Tell me about your sea. Bless me with all

that makes the tide flow sweet out of your hips.

I know what the seawall knows, what the wall

wants but can’t have. If a single stone slips

out of place the sea will gush in, drowning

this dry mouth of land. And, unlike the wall,

I am not afraid to drown, swallowing

all you can offer. I’ll swallow it all,

gag it down, wanting one more little death.

Let me hear the whale song humming deeply

inside your chest, sleep in the kelp forest

between your thighs. Divers must hold their breath

going down, but I’ll let your undersea

kingdom flood me. I’ll let my seawall burst.

witch-mark

18 Thursday Jul 2013

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Bluntless succubus. A joyless rolled spliff
between two blue lips. The devil’s nipple,
misfit clit, nuzzles my chin with a whiff
of a witch-mark; which marks where I’ve been, dulls
pillow talk, slows all us down. Going down
on you bigmouth I get my full mouth throttled
to the ground. Shagged but not fagged; a putdown
that can only make sense in past-tense. Fraggled,
as in rock and squirt and splashdown. Your skirt
around your hips, your lips blue and agog
as you gag me. Did I mention that there’s
something in my throat? The pervert’s effort
is worth it. The sky is dull without smog.
Lust is nothing more than nightmares and prayers.

areia

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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No deserto, sempre que o desejo é, te alucina.
Rijos, ávidos, letradas, solteiras, taradas, pudicas, peludas, careca.
Mas teus desejos são comuns.
Você prefere as filhas, das tias, das mães, das irmãs, as sobrinhas.
Você rasgar um buraco no céu.
Mas isso não é comigo.
Eu amo tudo que ama areia.
Areia que traz inundações e magia.
Areia que está em casa.
Areia que é mal-amada.
Areia que dizem “te amo” e mais nada.
.
In the desert, where the desire is, you hallucinate.
Wiry, eager, educated, single, horny, prudish, hairy, bald.
But your wishes are common.
You prefer daughters, aunts, mothers, sisters, nieces.
You tear a hole in the sky.
But that’s not me.
I love everything that loves sand.
Sand that brings floods and magic.
Sand that is home.
Sand that is unloved.
Sand that says “I love you” and nothing else.

nothing else matters

10 Wednesday Jul 2013

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Minha boca quente sempre a te sugar.
Nada mais importa.
Não minha beijo em teu pescoço.
Delirando. Não seu corpo,
eu tenho que sentir, eu tenho que fazer loucuras.
Uma mordida? Não uma mordida.
Não meus lábios em teu pescoço.
Nada mais importa, mas, minha boca
quente a te sugar. Sempre.
.
My hot mouth to suck you always.
Nothing else matters.
Not my kiss on your neck.
Delirious. Not your body
that I have to feel, I have to do crazy things to.
A bite? Not a bite.
Not my lips on your neck.
Nothing else matters, but my hot mouth
to suck you. Always.

pain. little deaths. drowning.

09 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Porque eu estou morto. Porque
eu afogou e eu morri de dor. Porque
minha língua é tocando no céu da tua boca.
Porque minha dor é o lua lindo. Porque
minha sepultura a é piscina das oceanos longínquas.
Porque ama seu professor por você ensinar
as coisas mais belas das quais não é ensinado na sala de aula.
Digo-lhe isto. Na fragilidade do amor é isto.
Dor. Pequenas mortes. Afogamento.
Venha aqui. Você está curioso,
e eu estou nua e sempre molhado.
.
Because I’m dead. Because
I drowned and died in pain. Because
my tongue is touching the roof of your mouth.
Because my pain is the gorgeous moon. Because
my grave is a pool of distant oceans.
Because you love your teacher for teaching
the most beautiful things that never get taught in the classroom.
I tell you this. The fragility of love is this.
Pain. Little deaths. Drowning.
Come here. You are curious,
and I’m naked and always wet.

pain little deaths drowning 2

pain little deaths drowning 3