21 Wednesday Mar 2012
Posted in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on guilty passion
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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.
18 Sunday Mar 2012
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“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.
08 Thursday Mar 2012
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barebacking, cum, grief, Hart Crane, homoerotic, lazy boy, tears
[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.
02 Friday Mar 2012
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?
02 Friday Mar 2012
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Author’s note: Contrary to popular belief, a “witch’s brat,” is simply a male, of any age, who studies the dark arts under the tutelage of a licensed necromancer. Niccolo Paganini, the 17th century violin genius, was called “The Devil’s Stepson,” and the “Witch’s Brat,” for his demonic and amazing musical virtuosity.
* * *
Call me a witch’s brat; with sex magic
all this is more fun. Your cum-stained panties
on the clothes line; used condoms, slick with sick
pleasures, lost in the tall grass. Fuck buddies
with a bit of black arts. Lovers of skin,
fleshy terrors. I’ll ride you like a horse.
Jockey for your night mare. My cock will pin
you to the floor. Your voice, scratchy and horse;
crying out “Ishtar,” over and over;
and I just switch from your cunt to your ass,
over and over. I’ll ride you with fire
and spurs, hexes and saddles. I’m a crass
brat, crude, feral. But you, slave to passion,
thirst for all that is taboo and pagan.
14 Tuesday Feb 2012
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Let me draw down the moon, unless she wants
to be left alone. It’s why we share our
first names and respect. Lady Macbeth haunts
all those who think that she and the flower
can still be sold – which of us has not gripped
a knife? pressed it against the fleshy bits
of our bellies? Out, out, damned spot. Horsewhipped
until the clay cums. There’s more than cocks, tits
and cum in this breathing life. I consort
with the long dead. What hangs between their thighs
has long confirmed their worth. ‘Le petite mort’
ruptures when my guts give forth. Samurai’s
cold steel piercing me. All my happiness
comes down to this: strife, sex and cannabis.
10 Friday Feb 2012
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afro, cum, cunnilingus, geyser, orgasm, Sappho, sonnet, Zora Neale Hurston
“I love myself when I am laughing … and then again
when I’m looking mean and impressive.”
— Zora Neale Hurston
Slow, slow, all gooseflesh your cunt, I keep time
with your boisterous brassier, tongue tricking,
slower, O yes, panting, our gentle crime
of bed springs. Listen to sloppy sucking
that our adultery bears. Sappho sang
about cuckolding delights, but all we
need is a touch of the herb, your gangbang
porn and hours of fucking. You know sissy
boys know best. Let cum fall in showers, snow
upon your hills, drop, drop, drop, drop, nature’s
passion is now ours. I love your afro;
the way we cum together like geysers.
If life isn’t about cum and foreplay,
at least we can pretend during the day.
09 Thursday Feb 2012
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Author’s note: Abu Nuwas was one of the greatest of the classical Arabic poets (756–814). “Father of Curls,” so named for his long flowing hair that hung down to his hips, his work has been collected in the book “O Tribe That Loves Boyish Men.”
* * *
‘Father of Curls,’ Abu Nuwas: “Always
I will scatter god and gold to the four
winds. I love heathen boys, devil girls; praise
what the Book forbids, embrace what you swore
were sins.” Dead Uncle Abu came to me
in a dream: “I am drunk by this pisser,
all hard-on and honeydew lip. Cocky
boy, come kiss me.” I’m a ghost’s boy lover,
the sort that sleeps in the margins unseen.
I love the cold lips of a ghost: carnal,
sad eyes, passions straight out of hell. Obscene
dreams are all that keeps us alive, Uncle.
I’m your heathen, devil, boyish man, too.
Raise up, dead, I want to go down on you.
07 Tuesday Feb 2012
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Cathy 'Cat' Davis, Christy Martin, Delia 'Chikita' Gonzalez, female boxing, Ganymede, hard girl, Hercula, Laila Ali, Lucia Rijker, myrrh, Sappho, soft boy, sonnet, Zeus
Sappho wrote: love shook me like a mountain
wind in the oaks. I’d fuck you like eagle-
god Zeus fucked Ganymede. Raging, drunken
on speed and cum, coming down, an awful
lightning bolt. I like soft boys and hard girls.
When dear Hercula won the boxing match
I crowned her with laurels, then gave the curls
over her bloodied face three kisses. Snatch
pleasure, bittersweet like myrrh, where you will.
I’ve felt lightning, wind in the oaks, all this
we call lust. But it was her broken face
that turned me on. Scars and the urge to kill.
Kiss me, love. I want to feel your rage. Kiss
me with something like a murderer’s grace.
07 Tuesday Feb 2012
Lily, unless the gifted Anahit
lies at your side, sleepless you must now be.
To watch a lover burn up, like mincemeat,
over No Man’s Land. How your poor empty
bed must recall the groans then moans? Again
all these odes to war. Nine muses, you say?
Sappho the Bisexual makes it ten.
Poet of Wars and Clits. Old Boss DJ
still spins your tracks. “I am what I say.” Poor
Sappho, you are bones and dust. Lily’s love
lays, burned in a field. Not even the sky
can drink up all her tears. What fool said war
was good sport? Let her grave be of foxglove,
wild plums; even bisexuals must die.
memories of my ghost sista 