Category Archives: Poetry

ayrivank orpheus

31 Monday Dec 2012

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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]

itchy, fevered, ill

15 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

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ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 01

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 02

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 03

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 04

ice and sunfire 05

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.

the coolest of the seven samurai

[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.

desirous appetites

13 Thursday Dec 2012

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desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [1]

desirous appetites [2]

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.

the beasts were all gathered

03 Monday Dec 2012

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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.

love like scabies

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

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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.

dogsbane

27 Tuesday Nov 2012

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Swallows twittered all morning; at high noon
blackbirds sang amid the corn. At dusk down
the frogs with piping filled the black lagoon
and the bats, in flight, spoke of the nightgown
and the sticky toy. Let me sing about
going down behind your misty blood veil
finding your red-faced rose moon, your cunt’s pout,
my two fingers in. I love girls’ duck-tail
haircuts and packed strap-ons. Cut birds’ laughter
across the harp strings of the rain, I hear pain.
I sing for the grass. I chime for flower.
This boy is all spring showers and dogsbane.
Let me be your rain, your wild wind, bluetongue.
This is love, the oldest song ever sung.

sticky trinity

26 Monday Nov 2012

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I have gone down on Christ of the Phallus.
I have sucked dry the Lord of Divine Hosts.
Let men brag about conquests. When Jesus
came he filled my mouth with the Holy Ghost’s
jizm. When he dribbled absinthe across
his god-like cock I prayed to the wild green
fire in its crystal shrine, Fairy-fuck sauce,
as I licked each massive ball squeaky clean.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. Hashish
and bath house gangbangs made for great threesomes,
sticky trinity. We were stoned, puckish,
immaculate. We were smutty pilgrims.
We found, between a prophet’s cock and ass,
all of faith sleeping in an absinthe glass.

doggy-style means nothing

26 Monday Nov 2012

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Down in the sunless depths of clay she sank.
Shocked and flushed as a star for a bridal
dress. Now shrouded. A chain across her blank
breast. The dead have forgotten sex. Babel
Tower Tongue-Fuck Doggy-style means nothing.
The noise they make sounds like weeping waters.
Aghast, she was at the point of cumming
when Death took her, still tasting of reefers
and gin. Cunnilingus interruptus;
Limbo by any other name. How low
would you go? Who would school you in lewdness
if your soul depended on it? I know
all souls do. How low? Today you shall learn
all the ways I make sure that you don’t burn.

your witching spot

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

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your witching spot

your witching spot

Yesterday
I salted
your mouth.
Today there is
a warm, briny
sea
between your legs
as you float,
soothed
by the kiss
of ripples
across
upturned nipples.
Your thatch
of hair a bed
of kelp.
Skinny dipping
near Santa Cruz,
the sea
shimmering
through you,
waves lapping
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
like stroke
you thrust
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
with you,
guiding
my tongue
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean
your lover.