03 Friday Feb 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on menstruação
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Menstruação: entre as pernas,
em 1975 Saigon caiu, o mesmo
acontece com a minha
língua – despudorada arma.
Se todas as guerras terminar
em uma explosão, eu quero
ser do orgasmo, e não do dor.
Chove, bebo em teu cálice.
Sangue.
25 Wednesday Jan 2012
11 Sunday Dec 2011
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Nas minhas costas,
nas minhas mãos
e joelhos. Dedo tua
boca. Beijar, sim,
alimentando
estes sinal de vida.
Beber os sucos aqui.
02 Wednesday Nov 2011
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Hoje, estou comendo Halloween-doces.
Eu estou bebendo vodka, estou inalação
Sweet-n-low. Eu canto: “Lingua, clitóris
e esporra, coke numa entre as tua bunda
e rum em tuas mamas,” uh, “Tongue, clit
and cum, coke between your butt and rum
on your boobs.” Whatever. Os cornos
do teu pai. Já posso sentir o
calor cantando entre tua pernas.
14 Friday Oct 2011
I tell you this, revenge is not a sin.
Yes, the craven are always saying we
should turn the other cheek. But, then again,
they are the ones who caused more misery
in their short lives than all the rest of us.
You hurt me, then you left; as if distance
would then protect you. Child, from my malice
there is no escape. All this dark science
at my disposal shall hunt you down, blood
feud. Ten thousand dollars and the pinkie
of your left hand will placate my hatred.
Something to tell your wretched progeny;
that all karmic debts call for sacrifice;
that for grace your finger was a small price.
23 Friday Sep 2011
The problem with ex’s is that they keep popping back up into your life years after you’ve buried them and moved on. I know I’m damaged goods, but I try to live a good life anyway. I’m a hospice nurse and take care of the dying, but there are times when I can totally understand the allure of being petty and wanting revenge, wanting to be a rock star and be adored for no other reason than to show those that have hurt us just how the world honestly and deep down totally hates them. Then I want Congress to pass a law that says officially every song ever written about two-timing bastards was written with them in mind, and that the general public can beat our ex’s with sticks if they’re ever caught singing the blues. But mostly I want the little finger on their good hand cut off and wrapped in silk and mailed to me, just like how Japanese gangsters, the Yakuza, show repentance. After all, just like in love, if you’re not going to dream big you might as well not dream at all.
For the record, Good Vibrations is a sex toy store in San Francisco my ex and I use to go to.
* * *
Você dizia, que você teria me ama
até você morrer, mas você ainda
está vivo. Curious. Tão, quem fica condenado
ao Inferno? é um sistema de pontos? ou
é ele o ódio de outras pessoas? Porque eu
sou mesquinho, e você tem o Inferno
para pagar. Eu estou aqui porque da bagunça
que você deixou quando foi embora. Você
perdeu o direito de cantar o blues.
Um 100 anos de inverno tem definido
a alma da América, e Good Vibrations
está falido e o ar está cheio de agitação
de cães raivosos e vibradores. Mas você não
entende nada sobre isso, porque isso exige
uma consciência sobre as coisas que você
tem feito. Eu jogo com um pacote perverso
de cartões: O Sodom e Gomorrah de Tarot.
Eu quero minha libra de carne. Eu quero meu
dinheiro de sangue. Eu quero você
no Inferno, olho do cu.
23 Friday Sep 2011
Eu quero beijos.
Eu quero velas, sangue,
o cheiro da manhã.
Vamos fuder no na encruzilhada,
vodu criança. Misturar nossa
o som do gozo com fantasma-
gemidos. Esfregue na nossa
pele, esporra, e magia negra,
beijos. Como fazer a nossa pele,
queimar durante a noite?
Eu quero ir e descobrir.
In English:
I want kisses. I want candles, blood, the smell of the morning. Let’s fuck in the crossroads, voodoo child. Mix our joy with the sound of the ghost-moans. Rub into our skin cum, and black magic kisses. How do we make our skin burn during the night? I want to go and find out.
13 Tuesday Sep 2011
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on rewind
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Me contorço sob você.
Nós filmamos conosco — frenético
ofegante em chamas — ficou
maluco. Rewind. Watch me.
Lambo meu suor. Puxo
teu cabelos, como rédeas
do cavalo. Nós filmamos conosco,
com todo meu esporra,
com meu coração todo.
In English:
I writhe under you. We filmed ourselves — frantic gasping in flames — it was crazy. Rewind. Watch me. Lick my sweat. I pulled your hair like reins of the horse. We filmed ourselves, with all my cum, with my whole heart.
27 Saturday Aug 2011
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Mostly it’s hard to think about The Fall
or Eve’s Sin or Great Satan’s Odd Toenail,
rat rot disease, on most good days. The gall
of our bedtime stories is that female
prophets keep stepping up, trying to fix
things, though no one seems to give a rot’s shit
for their blood, sweat and queers. A few cynics
blame it on pornos. The Pope blames Chick Lit.
(true fact) but mostly I keep forgetting;
for we worship each other with our trust
and our deep inner parts recall gushing
spray, the comfortable odor of our lust,
passion’s birth, rebirth, we feed on friendship,
like new priests crying in awe at worship.
26 Friday Aug 2011
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And how? And now it’s all about dumb-cum
sex, filth, onan, sad pussies and big old
balls in our poems. In the best poem.
Why else write it? Why else read it? I’m told
someone out there’s getting laid, but not us.
Not us poets. It’s hunger, not food, we
require. As Anne Sexton is my witness;
this is our own ballad of us lonely
masturbators. Outlaws know this hunger
like how the well-fed knows despair. Outlaws
love this searching, like a sleepless dreamer
or like a priest without a god. Because
who is devout enough to keep searching
for such an unobtainable longing?
memories of my ghost sista 