Category Archives: Poetry

rucked-up

12 Sunday May 2019

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First clue of others like you. Not romance
but bliss when the cauldron in your cunt stirred.

You knew why. In the peep-show reel from France
the nun reclined in rucked-up drawers. You heard

slip-slop noise each time the devil’s affair
plunged up to its hilt. Froth and cream spending

festooned in smears about her curled-back hair,
sopping his balls, a rivulet oozing

between split thighs. “Sappho at the Disco.”
“Girth, Wind and Fire.” “Sleeping Booty.” “Little

Orphan Tranny.” Those films were fun, but this,
child born from porn with no spite, no macho,

changed you. That clue that you could be carnal,
too. Your brain’s refrain. This first hint of bliss.

bad bliss

10 Friday May 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Potawatomi, sonnet, Translation

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Don’t be jealous of the dead. Their yearning
is like yours. “Ggiskonyé ne?” That pain

filling all her voice asks. “Are you getting
undressed?” I take her absinthe and regain

all those old tensions, those itches. To kiss
a ghost is to feel her raw tingle glow

in your flesh, echo in the sky, bad bliss
from the bowels of the earth. She has no

bowels but — she’s horny as a hellcat
with two cunts. I have been moonstruck before.

When at last I undressed before you that
was mad but you had said more, always more.

The dead are like us: loving cock and cunt
and all that’s odd, loving what is different.

][][

NOTE:
In the Bodéwadmi (Potawatomi) language, “ggiskonyé ne?” translates as, “are you getting undressed?”

burble

09 Thursday May 2019

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Older women with a weakness for boys.
Oedipus Rex cosplay. MILF and (not) Son

remake, “Down on the Farm 2: toys! noise!
and boys!” You tsk, tell me that there’s no fun

fucking someone younger than your daughter.
Perhaps. But when you grind your rock-hard clit

against me I wonder — “Hot mud geyser,”
“Cummies in my panties,” “Spit on my slit” —

you go feral when the Mother-Goddess
riots inside you and your words devolve

to sing-song burble. We all have passions
that scare us, madness from a Dark Venus.

She Who Blurs Lines. Riddles that I can’t solve
each time we revel at Mothers and Sons.

last act

05 Sunday May 2019

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Snatches of dream: horse cocks and long grayling
men, scents of blackcurrant and pheromones.

I dreamed that you drove to the Gulf, searching
for the best beast to fuck. I run with Crones,

Maids and Mothers, with smut, skin flicks and sleaze.
I dreamed of a red thread leading to you —

freak thread. Like all beasts, I cum in furies.
I hunt for your cunt. In dreams I pass through

your cunt’s soul-gate, as consorts do. To ache
with you, with ruin, with greed. Obsessed

with need, with how my cum-splatters flow
over your breasts. Come and find me and wake

me and fuck me like a freakshow conquest.
Last act at the New Orleans Centaur Show.

amenamair

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by in Armenian, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, Translation

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Far more nervous for nightfall than I’ve been
for a while. Gloaming, some call it. The time

when paths open. — If I could leave my skin,
walk soft there, I would. I can’t. That sublime

skill is beyond me. The most that I do
is wait down by the crossroads for her guide.

Amenamair: a name the ancients knew.
The All-Mother. In last night’s dusk I spied

in the willow where her queer owl singsonged.
I have never been this close to an owl

before or had such a song burn in me:
“Amenamair. I have longed. I have longed.”

I long to leave my skin. I long to prowl.
I long to be your song in that dark tree.

Note:
Just as Odin, in Norse lore, is called the All-Father, one of the many names of Lilith, in Armenian (the ancient language that I keep going back to), is Amenamair (Ամենամայր), the All-Mother.

all-mother, all-lover, all-other

28 Sunday Apr 2019

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Here is the cum that I spread on the bread.
Here is the blood that I spread on the cum.

Here is the burning candle that I’ve fed
them both to while her owl sang a solemn

whinnying song in the dark tree. Altar
to her name and tongue, her cleft and cleavage:

She-Folds-Back-Her-Labia. All-Mother.
Owl-Faced-Moon. The-One-Whose-Cums-In-Carnage …

Each night an offering of my essence
is left for her. Bread soaks up everything

that I smear on it. If she’s pleased she sends
her owl, filling the night with the fragrance

of raunch and vixen fever, countering
cunts and lasciviousness that transcends.

puckered

27 Saturday Apr 2019

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For so long masturbating and sick drunk
was what I did. I might look like jailbait,

but my stink was just like how the damned stunk:
shame-faced and aroused. Once, when I was eight

and you ten, your mother undressed us, laid
us down belly to belly. “I’m swollen,

babies, drink up mama’s milk.” Her milkmaid
nipples dribbled as she stroked your hymen,

puckered my ass. — What’s a freak and bar fly
when you’re ten? Now I find that what I yearn

for I must drink to smother. Far better
to cum by myself than to be ruled by

chaos because part of me wants to burn
every time that I hear: “come in, mother.”

venus mound

25 Thursday Apr 2019

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“Only my ass, daddy, only my ass.”
We sat by the window in your grandma’s

attic attempting to clean all the grass
stains from where you knelt among the thistles

and weeds to take me down your throat. Playground
hookup, you called it. — On the attic floor,

on my back, you ground your round venus mound
against my face. I’d tongue-fuck your flushed core,

if I could. But as I press in you stop —
tell me, not in there. “Don’t make angels weep,”

the nun had warned. We won’t. Dried cum, like glue,
dots your face, while, “be bop a lu she bop,”

plays downstairs. As I bury myself deep
in your ass I think, “I barely know you.”

come down

20 Saturday Apr 2019

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Had there been a door, perhaps. The sex-fiend
in me knew. Out in the hall Marvin Gaye’s

“Let’s Get It On,” was playing while you leaned
down and told me to spit. Praise soaked lips. Praise

all the squelchy sounds that you make under
your scrubs. The pulse of your breast in its bra

pressed to my cheek. Perhaps in some other
room there was a door to let the wet, raw

musk of impaled cunt and cock fill the space
between us. “Let your love come down,” Marvin

crooned. Let the drill’s buzz drown out your fox yips
at each stroke. Let my cum dry on your face.

Instead, your nipple hard against my skin,
you smiled, slid a finger between my lips.

prurient

18 Thursday Apr 2019

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Fleshlight. Teledildonics. HiTechPorn.
Pity unloved sex toys. Lost anal beads

in the sock drawer. A vibrator forlorn
and cracked. We all have lascivious needs.

We all have prurient interests. But butt
plugs and cock rings sauced with crusted up lube;

broke-ass nipple clamps; someone’s well-loved smut
discarded — they’re all my pathos. FuckCube

busted. Sybian broke. I know the dismay
of a Ben Wa ball torn from its playmate.

I’m still sentimental for your clit rings,
for all childish things that you put away.

Suffering Sappho, save me from straight hate
that schemes against us, your divine blessings.