Category Archives: Poetry

shaman’s trip

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

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Wide shine coming from you standing open
in the window. Now, a damn breaking, rich
reeking with the end of winter, molten
weight of loam dripping. The smell of spinach,
hot shaved copper, all finger lickin’ good.
Pull the curtains. A damn. A curse. The door
behind you shuts. This lust around us. Should
pharaohs, ancient fuckers, need one more whore
like me, then I’ll go. I’ll do anything
for you. This affair, these lamentations,
libations, our bodies, earth full fucking.
Leave your body, come in me, a shaman’s
trip, sweet burnt offerings. I’m your Holy-
Holy with you screaming “god, cum in me!”

gertrude the cougar

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

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There is no love in this life for older
women. The most you can be is Gertrude,
Hamlet’s mother. But what sort of pleasure
can you find with a melancholy prude
for a son who wants you all to himself?
While Hamlet and Claudius fought Gertrude’s
vibrator buzzed, making her the first MILF,
the first Cougar, first to catch a young dude’s
eye. And why not? Life is short and we all
drink the poison in Act 5. A good fuck
is the least we can do. The last cure-all
until the undiscovered country. Suck
you wet, Gertrude, you who’ve been another
mother to me; my friend, muse and lover.

in praise of older women

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Lordy, I’m getting up in years but mama

ain’t too old to shift her gears” — Ida Cox.

It’s sort of a fetish with me. Your ass
in fishnets; I’ve always had a thing for
older women in fishnets, their hourglass
lips, ball-breaking boots. Out on the dreamfloor
of our bedroom someone stands up. Someone
begins calling me home. Home is hardcore,
ancient and changing. I love your shaven
lips and your whiskey hip voice. I love your
smile while you’re gagging me down, while bending
down in that skirt. You’re somebody’s mother.
Tonguing your two cheeks apart, those two thigh
pillows. That letter from mama, calling:
come home child, before I die, the letter
from her, I die, I – come before I die.

dull and bestial

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Tonight I want you dull and bestial;
honey mammals on all fours. do not think
while I reach around you for a nipple
or grab your hips to lean forward and drink
in your flesh scent, kiss the back of your skull.
grovel on your hands and knees while I press
in slow. yes, the wicked and the sacral
all know these muddy blues, too. hiss out, “yes,
baby, yes.” hiss out nasty, delightful
things. this ghost broth is what rude boys, sassy
girls all speak about. mad delirium.
let us go beyond words. take our push-pull,
push-pull to a sweat fuck that cannot be
captured, written down, put in a poem.

with pollen, with sap

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Orchid. I shall call you Orchid. Call me
your fat bumble bee and I will suck dry
your wet parted lips. Call me your oak tree.
Let your hungry mistletoe feed on my
wild sap. Let it dribble across your thigh,
down your chin, all over. The French call this
Soixante Neuf; numbers and all they imply.
You were never good at math; but to kiss
and suck and swallow? Even an orchid
knows to open up for pollen. Even
an oak will bend in the wind. Let us lay
side by side. Let us drink from pure liquid
delight. Let us spend all day, with pollen
and with sap, at what others call foreplay.

grind

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Ghost of Yu Luo Sha shakes her mane of hair,
dandruff everywhere, sits by the bedside
and grinds. We think the dead are unaware
of their genitals, but this is The Bride
with White Hair – at night she returns, touches
former lovers, cat-like, raises one leg,
lowers her hips onto upturned faces.
“Tongue out, love,” she whispers. Look, do not beg
that the soul is dull; as if ghosts don’t seize
every chance to watch you undress at night
or the dead, now pregnancies, S.T.D.s
are not a threat, do not use their birthright
for bliss. Yu Luo Sha, hair loosed, knees up, dress
ripped off, grinds. This is what the dead possess.

tensed, a girl

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Tensed, a girl in a Kyoto public
bath felt her sphincter contract, a hot jet
pulsating from a hand-held Aqua Pick
on her clitoris. Her marionette’s
legs giving way, just as once on a whim
she took a boy to her old neighborhood
temple; Aizen Myo-O’s shrine, Shinto’s grim
god of wicked sex. It felt awfully good
to be dazed as he kissed each nipple; dumbstruck
as he licked his way to her crotch, pulling
down her ‘Hello Kitty’ undies to suck
her clit right into his mouth. The hot sting
from the shower, mist on her legs, the leer
of the god, the smear on his chin, the smear.

lalla aisha qandisha

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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note: in Moroccan folklore Lalla Aisha Qandisha
 is a sex demon who visits lover’s dreams.

 

You, child of fire, are able to transcend

all these years to arrive now in my dream

as my sister, mother, teacher and friend.

I am the worst of sinners, blaspheme

on two legs; everything is just questions

with no answers. The poorest of fortune

tellers can trace my doubts in you, the ones

reserved for all Christian, Jewish, Muslim

faith. And still you come. You and I; without

bodies, only fire, only your lips, kiss

on kiss, on mine. Like burning ash; drifting

and then fusing together. Let my doubt

be a song I sing from that day to this.

I burn, child of fire. Yes, I am burning.

nothing rooted

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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There is salt on my lips. I love that salt.
I am in love with all far-seen places.
All that rooted — red woods, sea beds, asphalt,
teeth — makes me happy. All the past, pieces
no one can recall, fascinates me. Why?
Why would we look back? Our love and hatred
all lost, a root pulled free, a flowing sky
going nowhere. Because nothing rooted
lasts and we love to root. I love the past
tense and its lies that says we have survived.
I love that you still think your memory
is your own. Kiss this salt off. What can last
beyond now? Nothing. Kiss me here. Deprived
of past. Rootless child, odd skylark. Kiss me.

eros, you say you are back

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Eros, you say you are back. Grand and good
for you. Hurrah. Now lop off this heavy
forked-tongue of mine, it is useless. I should
blame you for what you’ve done. I was honey,
manwax, the wind-turned question. I was all
there was. Now time, sweet milk, the drowsy
bee, all conspire against me. Once a small
fire could scourge the sky; I was your dirty
boot, your cockerel. My passion sleeps dormant.
And now, dear Eros, you say you returned.
Selfish. I call you selfish with your sly
magpie grin. Look at me. I was vibrant,
rude and willing. Before. I burned. I burned.
You left me to face down the whole burning sky.