Category Archives: Poetry

eros in chains

27 Friday Aug 2010

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Pity poor Eros, cock hard, once again.
Our porn saints strut with big asses. Every
circle jerk strips bare all our needs. Lust, then,
is all bankrupt. There’s a price, a very
large price, elsewhere, where the deep erotic
lives. Our Trinity: Stud, Virgin and Queer.
Santiago’s saints strut with bunda. Thick
ass boys are worshiped down here. There’s no fear
of death. That makes it a blessing. Give up
your pound of flesh, boy. The sacred always
demands flesh. Then you can talk of worship,
how you’ve never betrayed Eros’ gaze
or name. All this wit and flame, cum and spit.
How you, who’ve tasted love, honored it.

nectarine sweet

25 Wednesday Aug 2010

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On a crowded bus you were a stranger
stepping back the curve of my cock pressing
in the curve of your ass. I came after
you. You led, I followed you home. Walking
ahead of me I could see through your skirt
and you just smiled. Nectarine: sweet and warm
between your legs, peach camel toe. You squirt
when you cum, this much I know. A firestorm
nothing can quench. Unless it’s hard. Unless
it’s rough. Later, as your curtains shifted,
parted, I lay in bed, watching you dress.
Lover, it’s been years. Somethings are vivid.
Others not. I have forgotten your name
but your skin’s fragrance will always remain.

cum, pot, kisses

24 Tuesday Aug 2010

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Midday glare through shafts of sunlight your ass
rising and falling sex in a summer
field sweat blends with tiger lilies and grass
clinging to our backs clouds of birds cover
us and long shadows of oak trees cross our
naked bodies. Later sleep in the haze.
It will rain soon. You wake slowly an hour
or so I’m still deep inside you. Fuck-haze
of cum, pot, kisses. Back home the ceiling
leaks. Is that water or cum in your hair?
You smile. It is more than just sweat dripping
down your chin peal necklace. It’s our affair.
You are married. You are my temptation.
I’m in love with you. I’m your seduction.

drown in it

10 Saturday Jul 2010

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Love should be the green of the sea, the red
of the shore. We did not kiss or entwine
our limbs. We’re hungry. We’re lonely. A stone
slab is my bed by the Armenian
church. Love should be more than shadows, broken
lamplight, a dance by the temple. A moan,
a spark in your hair. Sea glitter. The whine
of the sea craving for more. I have fed
 
my heart plenty enough, still it wants more.
Let this love burst phosphorous. The let the sea
call the tide to return once more the shore.
Is love the tide? you the sea? I the shore?
Who know? Just that you are mad, I misfit
and our love deep enough to drown in it.

mescaline is for the weak

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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I’m not sure when LSD morphed into
acid, perhaps Pacman played a key role.
You have eaten it in crystals, liquid,
laced on sugar cubes, rubbed against your skin.
I like your skin. It’s shiny. “Mescaline
is for the weak,” you said. “Give me acid,
vodka, horse tranquilizers. The wormhole
in my head needs feeding.” Be my Voodoo
 
Chile (slight return). It’s all about our fun.
Our wait for things to happen; things impure.
Baring your dark skin to the flat, white sun,
huddled down on the striped towel in your
homemade paisley bikini. A lesson
while we wait for something fun to happen.

cleoparta’s last

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Please, not again. Not another grand dame:
“Magdalena Weeping” or “Ophelia
Drowning” or “Cassandra Telling the Truth”
Of course she’s telling the truth, she’s fucking
Cassandra, asshole. Where’s “Venus Shitting”?
“Cleopatra’s Last Belch”? “Ester and Ruth
Eating Pork”? (you know they did) “The Nausea
of Eve”? Nausea of us. Save us from lame
 
observations. Trite verse we already
have heard. Selling yourself for sex is fun.
Sniffing glue actually works. Chastity
sucks dead man’s balls. Love’s a bitchin’ suntan.
I’d trade ten years of poetic license
for crack-cocaine and good health insurance.

testify

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Tonight the bass blares: We’re up for the down
stroke. Your cunt dimly gleams, lighting the room
with wet girl glare, half cinder and half smoke.
I is not I. Jah flies into the air.
What love is this? Our queer love. This affair
of ours let’s us get down for the upstroke.
There is no bad rhythm. We just resume
our mad fucking. Cumming. Drowning. We drown
 
in each others’ cum. I can dig it, star
child. I wanna call this love, testify
funkadelic, CC. Let the guitar
glare. We dig. We’re astral and moon pagan,
waiting for the Mothership Connection.

twirl a penny

29 Tuesday Jun 2010

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Murmur that tells of April high in sweet
air the wind skirt blows, the brass weathercocks
all point south twirl a penny will buy her
violets and that makes you my own pervert.
Walk with me. Let the wind blow your short skirt
higher. Between her thighs she’s bald, smoother
than the moon. Gypsy moon. You want her “Box
Called Sin.” Your swampy parts. I want where heat
 
lightning always strikes. She belongs to no
one. Not the Bang Brothers. Not the nightlong
night. Still, you want. We lay on a ghetto
roof top. You pull off your top, pull your thong
to one side. You can cum when you’re can’t stop.
What else is there here on the roof top?

neon-cunts & cock-sprockets

03 Thursday Jun 2010

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Poets are dreadful fucks. Even back then
they were clueless, blaming the moon above
for their limp cocks. Heh, the English! The times
have changed but we’re still required to read
that cock-sucker Wordsworth in class. Please, bleed
all the fun from poetry with forced rhymes
that add zilch, nothing, nada. What’s this “Love
not, ye hapless sons of clay” crap? Again,
 
I say, these drip-dick lads are not worthy
of our time. I’ve fist-fucked Eros. I’ve let
Venus put her spliff out on my sorry
rawhide. Forget these daffodils. Forget
these two-hundred year old virgins. Poets
should be sick fucks: neon-cunts, cock-sprockets.

y’all make it so damn easy

03 Thursday Jun 2010

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Y’all make it so damn easy to dismiss
some of you poets as clueless. Back when
Wordsworth, et al., sucked: only a moron
would buy into how these guys portrayed
women: ‘How sweet,’ said the trembling maid,
‘doth the moonbeam smile to-night upon yon
leafy isle.’ This is all it took? grown men
pretending to talk like preteen girls? This
 
made you a poet? One of the Supreme?
Stop in the name love since Suffragettes
couldn’t come too soon. All this blaspheme
against verse. This is why certain poets
should be driven from the temple with sticks.
I’m through with their puerile shit, stupid pricks.