Category Archives: Poetry

wings and burning cheeks

16 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on wings and burning cheeks

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Demons do all look alike. They are round
with wings and burning cheeks. I love bucktooth
fangs, scholars and poets all, those hellhound
coke-heads, all my dead friends with a sweet tooth
for flesh. The heavens were made in sevens
and I fuck in threes. Water still burns nerves
whose one duty is to delight. Demons
do all look alike; the way that the curves
and lines in cocks and cunts blur together,
if you’ve been with enough. If you haven’t:
‘ello, virgin. There’s a reason spirits
shun you. Like how I shun burning water
and the living. We love all wet, mutant
lovers; hellhound fucks; dead coke-head poets.

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

12 Thursday Apr 2012

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

≈ Comments Off on lilith’s flamenco nuevo

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Poet’s Note: Lilith was Adam’s first wife, an equal, kicked out of Eden for refusing to be man’s inferior. Flamenco is a style of music, song and dance from Andalusia in southern Spain, if Grief chose a style of dance, it would be the Flamenco. Duende is a Spanish term, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca described it as the artistic power everyone feels but no science can ever explain. In Jazz it’s called Soul.

* * *

And the jackals knew that a new woman
was in town. How could they not? The snakes dreamed
of the deep well of souls you keep hidden
between your legs. Our home, this wasteland, gleamed
like a song; where each hand-clap was a scream,
every heel-smack … an act of revolt. Eve
never danced the Flamenco; her bloodstream
never ran this lewd. Let the crude fools grieve;

the moon, La Luna, listens to me sing.
I have no Duende, yet still I .. i ..
i .. i .. i, mi corazón, my heart-string.

We dance as outcasts under promised sky.
We are the owners of nights of freedom
from which blooms the blood-blossom orgasm.

(I love this video soooo much! ¡y un coñazo!)

future little ghost

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on future little ghost

Tags

, , , , ,

Day and night, each passion has its haunted
future, its mysterious bedsheets, cum
dripping down the walls. Passion, like acid
in the blood, hints at what could be. Welcome
ghost — urge I did not act upon — sleeping
inside me like one who died upon life’s
threshold, never wept for, smiled at, haunting
me with what might have been. The good housewife’s
low moan, the saint’s climax, the moonlit mile
where the nastiest of our spirits reigned.
Even while asleep, your perverted smile
tells me that you’re dreaming about the stained
knickers of the dead. What could be lewder
than our future, little ghost, my sister?

banshee, mo ghrá

24 Saturday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on banshee, mo ghrá

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Note: The Irish phrase “mo ghrá” translates
as “my love.” The Banshee is from Irish mythology;
Bean si, meaning, “a woman of the side” or “a woman
of the fairy mounds,” usually seen as an omen of death
and a messenger from the Otherworld.

* * *

On a midnight walk I spied a shadow
with long white hair, sobbing at Bane Reilly’s
doorstep. They say that a Banshee’s sorrow
knows no end. Yet, it’s said that, “a fury’s
lust is the twin of a furious grief.”
And I, who traffic with spectral lovers,
sat down near. What is the point of belief
if we don’t act on it? There are monsters
in this world, but they wear skins of humans.
Only a man could make such a spirit
so sad. You and I, we are both orphans,
in one form or other. I’ve kissed kismet.
I’ve slept with death, Banshee love. It’s my faith
to share my love with you, my white-haired wraith.

thirsty ghost

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on thirsty ghost

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Even ghosts get thirsty. Come, share with me
a bowl of shaved mango ice and sweet bean.
I have the gift. I have proficiency.
I can traffic. I am the boy between.

Thirsty ghost, will you taste my love? my kiss?
will you taste my blood? I have more to share.
I can make you weak, small ghost, make you hiss
when you cum. And you will come. This nightmare
called thirst — suck greedy baby, greedy shade,
drain me dry — nightmares make us strange bedmates.
Loose your wild hair. Go down, lover. I prayed
for a thirsty love. Who said sex stagnates
after death? Take me deep inside — my breath,
my love — fill yourself with this little death.

luscious fear

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on luscious fear

Tags

, ,

Note:

The strength of writing sonnets is that they are, by definition, short. You only get 14 lines to say whatever it is you want to say, each line can only have ten syllables in it (iambic pentameter) and there’s a rhyme scheme you have to follow (this one goes: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). Because I’m more or less tone deaf I spend a lot of time counting out the syllables on my finger tips and trying to figure out how to make a sentence work that has whatever rhyming word in it the poem requires. Of course, sometimes you rework a line or sentence so much that while it might succeed as a correct line in poetry, when you reread it you think “damn, is that what I really think?” So, for the record, I’ll just say that love is more than the ability to cum or have an orgasm. There’s more to life than erections. It’s not that I advocate necrophilia, but rather, it’s hard to talk about a ghost lover without at least hinting at it. Oh yes, and I really like the word “luscious,” people should use it more in conversations. Cheers!

* * *

I love your lips, cracked; your eyes, all bloodshot.
Our lust is what gives luscious fear its life.
All night in my bed, we turned cold death hot.
Who loves you? Would just any man or wife
lick the grave dirt from between your cunt lips?
Cum for me. You came back for me. I came
inside you. The proof of our love now drips
inside you. When it’s love there is no shame.
Embrace the wicked light of a June moon.
Sing to me what the Dead know of the night.
And, my dark one, I want you to cum soon.
Cum like roman candles, burn like sunlight.
It was the way you slipped back into bed,
hungry, aroused, as if luscious fear led.

guilty passion

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on guilty passion

Tags

, , , ,

guilty passion Armenian

My dear friend Arevik translated this poem into Armenian for me. It’s been many, many years since I was able to write Heyerin (as the Armenians call their own language) and I am just grateful to have the kind of friends who take time out of their crazy lives to help me out. The original went:

Come kiss me, my guilty passion. Suck the pain out of my blood. Come kiss me, kill me with love. Delicious, relentless, eternal poison. Feverish body. Wonderful cravings.

EXHALE

18 Sunday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on EXHALE

Tags

, , ,

“Breath is the bridge which connects you to passion,
which unites your body to your desires.”
~Sanskrit Proverb

 

We speak with the breath of saints and demons.
Exhale: we have the whole cosmos hidden
in each breath. The atoms of lesbians
and gay men, gods and heroes — everyone
who has ever drawn breath — live within us.
We rub. We squish-slish-squish. We cum crazy.
When you take me; when I taste your wetness;
we are immortal. What is jealousy
but sin? First love, last love; for a thousand-
thousand years we’ve been doing this. Come taste
my past. Each hard cock; each cunt that glistened
with need. Exhale. Breath in all my debased
needs. When all our breath, all our cum mingles
we’re more than just lovers, we’re immortals.

cum shaped like tears

08 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry

≈ Comments Off on cum shaped like tears

Tags

, , , , , ,

[for Hart Crane]

Allow me, love, to let go of your hands.
The way you walked to the rail, dropped your coat,
and jumped. Your love, like your poems, demands
so much, but I’m a lazy boy. You wrote
because of the pubic hairs I sent you.
You wrote that my dried cum was shaped like tears.
Then why? You could have called me your nephew,
your rent boy, your love. We could have spent years
making a life of liquor, barebacking
and odes work. Ink in my mouth. Tell me why
you did not wait. Once I’d have tried, grabbing
your hand, to hold you back – but no, goodbye,
let go, the void calls. Fall. It’s my belief
that I must let go with my cum called grief.

prophet of cocks, clits and cum

02 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on prophet of cocks, clits and cum

Tags

, , , , , ,

Note: As a hospice nurse I spend much of my time taking care of those who are about to pass over into whatever it is that waits for us when we are no longer alive. The Mystery, as they say. The Romantic poet John Keats called it his Darkling, as in “speak darkling, I listen.” Personally I have no idea what to make of death, other than that, like puberty, it’ll probably change everything. Then, again, maybe not. I’ve always been fond of the fairy tales about ghost lovers, when things like pregnancies and STDs and all the mundane problems of sex have been solved and all you need to do is haunt the bedroom of your beloved because for all of us there are somethings worth coming back for.

* * *

“When you’re dead, you’ll regret not
having fun with your genital organs.”
— Joe Orton’s diary, 23 July, 1967.

Don’t waste this life, darkling. When I’m all ghost
I will spend my time watching you undress.
The dead are voyeurs. Perverts. They are host
to a thousand lusts they cannot possess,
like me. Like a chaste nun who masturbates
in the after-life. We all make amends.
My dark one; he said, “She who menstruates
is now unclean.” “She who hungers, offends.”
That’s an infidel talking. He who “Scorns
the gift of divine orgasm” deserves
to be a cuckold. Billy-goat rough. Horns
to the devil. We are prophets of curves
and cocks, clits and cum. All sex is sacred.
Why wait til I’m dead to see you naked?