10 Thursday Jan 2013
Tags
does it taste
like myrtle?
like mint?
like blood-
orange
anemones?
we can agree
that we taste
sweat.
but
jasmine? no.
i’ve tried
again
and again
to pin
point
the scent,
the ablution
of your wide
ocean
raw
as ripe
figs.
09 Wednesday Jan 2013
Heaven means little when there are bloated
hands, a skirt undone, blotches of blood caked
across the face. There is nothing splendid
about heaven if any dull, half-baked
prude can get there simply on faith. The pus
oozing from the earth, the pus in my veins,
some say sin, are the same. The Horned Huntress
calls for me. She Who Cannot Be Named reigns
here, a living heaven, a flash, something
divine. Your last orgasm; speak molten
omens dripping down your thigh, soothsaying
your cum for things to come. See what you’ve done.
All for a faith that needs no toil, no vow.
All for a heaven that’s right here, right now.
09 Wednesday Jan 2013
Tags
adulteress, Frankenstein, heroine, Prospero, re-animation, sonnet, sublime, zombie
All this scandal men and their jokes fall flat,
waking the blue chaos inside. Make me
the saint of the exile and the wildcat,
the mad girl, the adulteress still hungry
for love. Never let us be so unloved
that we start to believe that joke, that crust
the dull and savage dress us in. Beloved
daughter, spirit of my flesh, ghost of rust
and dark re-animation, these are gifts
I’ll dress you in. The color of gasping
breath, the heartbeat’s first beat, a mewl that drifts
from your throat. Rise and rejoin the living.
I am no Prospero, no Frankenstein.
Still, my art is crude, erotic, sublime.
08 Tuesday Jan 2013
Aumakua: a succubus
from the Sandwich Islands,
South Pacific.
Her hair was long, at least by our dreamland
standards. She had wrapped the tail ends around
her toes, so that when she walked she left the sand
patterned, like the wind in the dunes. The sound
of her song could be heard up and down
the beach. In the graves of Chief Roi Mata
and his 20 wives the old man would frown
at all the smutty figures she would draw
in the sand with a stick. Missionaries
called her a devil as she drank the rain
gushing out from her own lap. Her menses,
it was said, could wake the dead, heal that pain.
In our dreamland she waits, a succubus
under a lotus tree, pleasure’s goddess.
03 Thursday Jan 2013
Posted in Erotic, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on zerachiel, mi amor
31 Monday Dec 2012
Stèles
bustes
berceaux
les témoins
à l’ombre touffue
du paradis
avoir tant attendu
d’impossibles marées
Sous le vent des arbres
t’enveloppe l’ombre complice
Tous les siècles
silences
gagner la dune
L’enchevêtrement
de pierre
opéra désordonné
signes
trinité de sable
qui t’accueille
ceinte des marches
se rapprocher
boucliers
masques
proclamation
de batailles
secrètes
falaise sombre
découpée d’azur
coupoles
en suspens
blocs arcs
diffraction
de croix
Roche orangée
où courent des ruisseaux
d’herbe
Soudain
plongé
au coeur de la grotte
humide oppressante
gouttelettes d’orage
qui scandent
yeux de Shiva
brasier
délimitant la nuit
S’égarer parmi
la faille
Nul retour
le chemin de cendres
Surgir nu
faune à la flûte
tu envahis l’écran
sans mot dire
bec
incandescent
regard rivé vers
les tréfonds de la terre
Scène urbaine
chaos industriel
improvisation
cathartique
les vertiges
oubliés
basculement
d’outre Erevan
Les angles se tordent
perspectives floues
arcade molle
piliers de convulsion
déplier
chaque prisme
La coupole fuit
se déplace
lunaire
iris de pierre
fixe
duduk
sismographe
dentelle mouvante
casque
de l’orant
Feuillages opiacés
tiare du chaman
les silhouettes
se plient
aux désirs secrets
multipliant
leurs clés
suivre la paroi
telle une peau
scarifications
grotte berbère
tatouages
ors terrestres
nappes
qui serpentent
coagulation de lumière
tu scandes
l’initiation
seul le torse
Revisiter la ville
les places d’oubli
torsion domestique
du plus profond
mage
doigts notes
symétriques
L’incantation
géométrie pétrifiée
kaléidoscope
paroles de la Pythie
vents
fixer le centre
qui se dérobe
Les perspectives
se répondent
fuient
Debout dans tes ténèbres
Ithaque
Sevan
ballet panique
épuiser toutes les formes
aller au delà
danser l’impossible
murailles du jaguar
les volumes conjugués
plaine improbable
bornes floues
Capitales
rompues
rive foisonnante
Message de Circé
L’appel des noyades
Lettres décomposées
losanges ruptures
dédale océanique
qui se multiplie et disparaît
faille bleue
Boutre
en quête
tes Mers Rouges
les horizons se mêlent
boussole nue
tu te laisses guider
par ce qui n’a pas
de nom
saccades d’écume
le lac agite son voile
bref létal
paupières qui se referment
grève muette
calcinée
Les flots roses
aurores
qui brûlent sans cesse
regagner les glaces
Les routes l’île
murs
qui affleurent
tourner le regard
La nuit tombée
reprendre le ballet
bâtir l’éphémère
au centre de la scène
agonie du sens commun
d’évidence
Animal
mystique
regard perdu
dans l’immensité
appel muet
danse d’exorcisme
Libre
de ta nuit
[http://armeniantrends.blogspot.com/2009/06/tsovinar.html]
15 Saturday Dec 2012
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on itchy, fevered, ill
ice and sunfire 01
ice and sunfire 02
ice and sunfire 03
ice and sunfire 04
ice and sunfire 05
notes: Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) was a Japanese author, poet, playwright and film director. He had been nominated three times for the Nobel Prize in Literature. His visions were avant-garde, displaying a blending of modern and traditional that broke cultural boundaries, with a focus on his own sexuality. He was obsessed with the romanticism of the samurai, as well as that of Bushido, their warrior’s moral code. He once explained in an interview that after WWII Japan was now living in an age where there could never be an “honorable death:” for Mishima that meant dying either on the field of battle or by ritualistically cutting out one’s own intestines with a knife. In 1970, after a failed coup d’état, he committed suicide by doing just that, seppuku.
“got the guts for it?”
Tonight’s ordeal by roses, red poppies,
praying mantises. You left and I came.
You left me and now I am hot with fleas,
regret, none of us can survive the shame
of the morning wind. My love: memory
of things precious keeps me itchy, fevered,
ill. A tower of stone. Rough and lonely.
Darling Mishima: you were a bastard
in life, but god-like in death. I have traced
knife points across my stomach, too, all set
to spill my guts to you. We have debased
any honorable death, and yet — and yet —
Like sex, your love left me sad and obscene,
tending to your grave, clothed in tender green.
[remix]
Tonight’s
ordeal
by roses,
red poppies,
praying
mantises.
You left
and I came.
You left and
now I am hot
with fleas,
regret, who can
survive
the shame
of the morning
wind? My love:
memory of things
precious keeps me
itchy, fevered,
ill.
A tower of stone.
Rough and lonely.
You were a bastard
in life, but god
-like in death.
I have traced
knife points across
my stomach, too,
all set
to spill
my guts
to you.
Have we
debased
any honorable
death? and yet —
and yet —
Like sex,
your love
left me
sad and
obscene,
tending to
your grave,
clothed in
tender green.
13 Thursday Dec 2012
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on desirous appetites
Tags
![desirous appetites [1]](https://ghostsista.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/aa6.jpg?w=529)
desirous appetites [1]
![desirous appetites [2]](https://ghostsista.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/aa5.jpg?w=529)
desirous appetites [2]
I.
The moon
smiled
on me
last night
as I lay
beneath
the stars hot
and flushed
in the grave
yard winking
as if
to tell me
of more delights
in the time
to come if
I could only
understand.
If I could
only hear
what
they want
to tell me.
II.
Deep down
under
the tombs
the conquering
worms writhe
and twist
with their
desirous
appetites,
hungry for what
remains
of flesh,
now deflated,
long shriveled,
spent. Cocks
and the dead
have much
in common.
Both strut
and fret
and when over
are heard
no more.
III.
Last night
I slept
in the grass
and felt it
tickle
the soft flesh
of my naked
thighs
and dreamed
you were
more than just
a ghost and
I was more
than just
in love
with your
lost,
dead
eyes.
03 Monday Dec 2012
Tags
I had a terrible
last night
dreamed:
“The beasts
were all
gathered,
flood-wild,
safe within
Ararat’s shadow
by Lord Byron’s
sons and
daughters, lo!
Syn
appeared,
a dark hairless
waif
striding
upon the cresting waters.”
I, too, am a child
of Manfred.
I just wish
you had had more
faith
in me.
I can’t help
that I am
a creature
of river clay,
crude
and molded,
but you – you
kept finding fault
in everything.
Urchins
in my dreams
gave me
more love
than you
ever did
in this breathing
scarce half
made up
world.
I loved you,
but you,
after
thought,
hurt me.
27 Tuesday Nov 2012
Give me one last kiss, I ask for no more.
I know that you see our love as bizarre,
grotesque. I wanted to taste battle gore,
to feed on war, my Witch-king of Angmar.
Alone, you have kissed my hungry lies, lips,
finger tips. I have conquered walled cities
for you. I, who was young and fair. What drips
here is only lust, the dark arts, furies,
my blood and disease. Love like scabies. Bliss.
Lover, my dark shadow in a red masque,
give me what I came for: one wild, sweet kiss
to last a thousand years. That I may bask
and die. Trampled. Recall our lover’s vow.
You, who have taught me my ways, kiss me now.
memories of my ghost sista 