Category Archives: Poetry

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

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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

minete and a room full of holes

05 Friday Jul 2013

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Doce a palavra. Minete.
Doce o sal na minha língua.
Desperta, meu sangue.
Negue que me amas três vezes antes do amanhecer.
Perdoai-me porque te desejo tanto.
Doce teu mágica.
Transforme teu esporra em vinho.
Como beato, ajoelho-me entre tuas coxas, irmã.
Minete. Desejo ser bebido.
.
Sweet word. Minete.
Sweet salt on my tongue.
Awake, my blood.
Deny that you love me three times before dawn.
Forgive me because I desire so much.
Your sweet magic.
Turn your cum into wine.
How blessed I kneel between your thighs, sister.
Minete. I wish to be drunk.

X3

X1

Note from author:

There aren’t a whole lot of foreign words in the world for cunnilingus (the English didn’t have one for so long that they had to steal the idea from the French). Minete is one of those words. It’s Portuguese and my dictionary defines it thus:

S.f. (calão) Prática de sexo oral que consiste na estimulação do órgão genital feminino, em especial o clitoris, com a língua ou os lábios. O mesmo que cunnilingus. (Do francês «minet») exemplo de: Afastou-lhe as coxas e começou a fazer-lhe lentamente um minete.

sounds so rude

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

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.
After your third moon’s dry menstruation,
after your third divorce and third tonic
without the gin. After the gin. Pardon
this dull child in love with you, your chronic,
lickity-clit poetry. The lyric
of the older woman and her green bud.
I can’t fly, but I can lick like a buck
at a salt-lick. Fill you, with acid-blood
alcohol and joy. Pardon your dull child
who makes you cry and cum. The gods, leading
me to you, knew your needs. We are all crude.
Shameless. All these teachers and students. Wild
fucks and praise for learning new words; making
what you call “motherly love” sound so rude.
.

 

 

blood ties

27 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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fa1

y un azoro de mujer/ llora a su cedro de Líbano
— and a ruin of a woman/ cries for her cedar of Lebanon
[from Gabriela Mistral, La Fugitiva]

Sister somewhere it’s my mother’s birthday
soon so I must go and find her. You said
why? warned that nostalgia is a cliche.
How can I answer why? Sister, instead,
please let me wash your feet before I go.
Let me clothe you in something more than dust.
We all say that we will return, I know,
and then we never do. You’re my bravest
friend, so if I can find that shining path
back to you then I will find you. You claim
all blood ties complicate things, like men’s laws,
and should be smashed. Perhaps. But, a bloodbath
will not help us be together. Don’t blame
blood. You asked me: Why? I tell you: Because.

poet’s note: I’ll be gone for a couple of days celebrating my mother’s birthday. Wish me luck, I’m looking for the path now.

fa11

faa1

ffa1

iris murdoch the one alone

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

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Is there any other way out of this
skull? I’ve drugged it, drilled holes in it, shot it
full of electricity. Nothing. There’s bliss
in pain, yes. But not release. I mean, shit,
Murdoch’s fog still creeps in. I am blurring
in front of the mirror. I’m freaking out.
Maybe ghosts are just us dead forgetting
who we are? Without memory I doubt
I am going to be saved, find a path
out of this woods. Lover, do not leave me.
I am afraid. Perhaps I have always
been this afraid, I do not know. My wrath,
my laugh, my fears, my love I am sorry
no, no, no do not sink into this haze.

machine-born rage and bedtime stories

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Homer’s heroines were virgins, witches
and fools. I need more than that from my myths.
Give me witches who can raise slain corpses,
virgins who command armies, girl blacksmiths
who forge the sort of swords that burn worlds down.
There are fools enough to make any queen
of the wood fairies swoon. I want to drown
the world in menstrual blood and fire, machine-
born rage and bedtime stories. Homer’s ass
hangs out here. We all take turns kicking it.
Poor mule. Poor Titania. These myths blur.
The world is a tinder box; with teargas,
sulfur and wrath. Would you try to light it?
Let us go and try to replace Homer.

the thing you call without a name

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Because we’re fragile. Because we spill truth
the way blue glass spills light. Because someone
loved us enough to be rude and uncouth,
crude and bestial, in ways that heaven
refuses to be. We’re the harbingers
of our fate. We’re cracks in the stonewall smile.
The blood-copper smell of sticky fingers
under your nose. Heh. Because the exile
wants to be something else. Because we all
want to be something else. Our mysteries
are just like that, kid. We’re unknowable.
We’re the cracked enigma. The thing you call
without a name. Except me. I’m a tease.
I’m what you want that’s rude and bestial.