Category Archives: Poetry

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.

chaos in the flesh

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Often the body acts like an engine,
or if not an engine at least chaos
in flesh. All this bloodroot, all this brazen
passion boiling over, seeping across
our palms, between our fingers, down brute wrists.
Chaos in flesh. Why talk about pain? loss?
shame? Let us have rendezvous, affairs, trysts
today. I will call you Boss Eros, Boss
Venus. In your boots come calling. Let me
seek a slit in your denim. Let me come
to warm flesh, then curls. Let me find sticky
what I hope. Let me grope. Until your numb
flesh curls. Buckles. Spurting volcanic fur.

amun and the cosmos

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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note: the Egyptian god Amus is said to have
created the universe through his orgasm.

We must live. Live far beyond this abyss

that calls but refuses all desire
and hope with its insatiable darkness.
We must live. If the cosmos and star fire
run in my veins; if my articulate
flesh holds all the heavens; if this body
is so divine, then let life germinate
in my cock. Let me stroke my own stormy
balls. I shall stand on the edge of this dark
chasm and thumb my cock forward and sigh.
Let us live. If you don’t know about lust,
that which made all of us, then watch the arc
of my sperm. Worlds are formed. The earth and sky.
This is living and we must live. We must.

each finger drowned

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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You look good on the subway, uncrossing
your legs just like that. You look good, your face
mirrored in the window darkly; hitching
up your skirt just above your knees. The space
between your legs glowing darkly. You look
good now, winking, one finger tip to trace
your lips, one finger tip to find and hook
the O of your pain. There is no disgrace
in pain, not this type; just sweat-fuck-feral
need. You look good making me your voyeur;
your eyes closed, mouth open, each finger drowned
in your wetness. All the noise and people
around us blur, the wheels keeping time; your
legs wide open, your fingers underground.

deep in one plump bunny

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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That pain we call desire. All the things
we want but never ask for. Why is it
hard to say adore me? are we cagelings?
baby tit birds unfit for love? unfit
to fly? We’ve flown before, back before we
were too bored to be adored. All that rush
of speed, that gush, blushing, gushing sweaty
because it feels so good. I miss that gush.
And pain. Because it is a pain. To find
just one person who won’t hurt us. Who won’t
act just for themselves. My soul, I don’t mind
where you take me and I’ll never say “don’t.”
Come with me. Let’s rush. Let’s open up doors.
Let’s go. Let us be the ones Love adores.

lava and sea salt

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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When the volcano turns shale and basalt
liquid, when the coast melts and heat and steam
rise up in the air, when lava and salt
water mix, then nature loves blaspheme.
These earth tremors and quakes, these little deaths,
the whole world shifting on its foundations.
I have heard in each of your sleeping breaths
how the oceans will pause, how the millions
of small sea moans will hush, how this lipless
world knows we’ll go explore this ravaged shore
of a kiss. If the sea loves our crudeness,
if this is our blaspheme, I want more.
I want your flow and tides, steam and beaches,
lava and sea salt, your cum and kisses.

my daughter the pornographer [version 1]

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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It was when she started bringing her work
home that I began worrying. Walking
into the kitchen to find some girl jerk
a boy off as my daughter, capturing
it all on film, shouts instructions. Finding
the sink full of sex toys just washed. A new
tube of anal lube in her purse. “Watching
others fuck,” she told me, “is what I do
best.” I can’t help but think there are voyeurs
in all of us. Even the printed word
was once another’s. “You would be surprised
what we all will do in front of others,
given the chance,” she said. “It is absurd
to say we don’t love what others despise.”