Tags
I touch the wet spot
where once you beat inside me
where bruises now bloom
14 Monday Dec 2015
Tags
I touch the wet spot
where once you beat inside me
where bruises now bloom
03 Thursday Dec 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on that slapping nuisance
I can’t sleep. I’ve listened to you all night.
Over and over, softly through the floor.
This must be your art, your craft. Sodomite.
Pervert. Poet. And while I could say more
there are a thousand reasons why I should
stop here — I’ve wasted so much whiskey on
myself, I’ve bled, I’ve gnawed on green wormwood.
And you — with your, “Afternoon of a Fawn,”
and your beastly hands and cruel antlers —
You sing low. That noise, that slapping nuisance,
fills the night with voyeuristic heartache.
All art is illicit, it seeks pleasures —
In your pause, in your last note, that silence,
coming from below, keeps the world awake.
28 Saturday Nov 2015
Posted in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on night tide
The drowned girl said, “be rougher, I don’t mind.”
In the old tongue — a tongue that I couldn’t
speak well. The lake water had made me blind
so I clung to her wide hips as her cunt
covered my mouth, my chin. In the night tide
the small waves inched over us. I could feel
her bent forward, pressing down, as she tried
to gag me -drown- while her wild mane went eel-
like, all hither and yon. I’ve walked Sevan’s coast,
the drowned outnumbers the living. Thirty
years-old; wild hair rose up, like — dark like, kelp —
a voice that called from the lake. Carmine’s ghost
calling, “Yeranut’yun.” — Bliss. The way she
pulled back and said, “you naughty little welp.”
][][
note:
In Armenian, the word for bliss is, “yer’an’ut’yun,” (երանություն).
20 Friday Nov 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on acheflow
Tags
Here’s release. You and me, we’re not like them.
They pulled away. You sniffed my open palm
as you touched your lips. My fingers, my thumb,
even my wrist were soaked. The low buzz-bomb
growl of my vibrator filled the backseat
of your mom’s car. The upholstery had crude
scars and new finger-funk stains, while slush-sleet
coated the windows — Acheflow — We pursued
whatever we could do between the breaks.
Your prom was a bust; your college transcripts
denied. You were a ball of stress. All fraught
until a toy made you squirt up earthquakes
into my palm. They blanched while your hips
buckled wide in the Gaspar parking lot.
17 Tuesday Nov 2015
Tags
ghost smut, poem, shell of your own, snuggle close, sonnet, warm body, where the dead fall in love
When you finally take you last corporeal
form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.
Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull
and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;
where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven
dust motes move as your fingertip explores
my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen
touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores
gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized
with me once you have a shell of your own?
Or will I be just one more warm body?
Will you, who died for love and once despised
false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone
that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?
06 Friday Nov 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on bit salt
Morning fog. Open window. Her muscled
arms. Spooned in silence. Soft boy flesh waking.
One roll and she mounted, sliding from dulled
sleep into howling wetness. Tightening,
vice-like, a groan, nails marking his shoulder,
husky, low. Fog patches filling the gapes
of the bay. Child of the reef, your lover
caught you out of your drowned-skin. What escapes
lust when a muscle-woman puts her mind
to it? Not even myth. Her thighs buckled,
her heels dug into the mattress. She ground
down. Bit hard. Drew salt. Laughed as she reclined
back; let him breathe while sea-water dribbled
between her thighs dribbled down dribbled down.
28 Wednesday Oct 2015
Posted in Armenia, haiku, Poetry, quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on իմ երկար անձրեւոտ եղանակ
իմ կրծքեր,
իմ բեռը —
իմ երկար անձրեւոտ եղանակ
im krtsk’yer,
im berry —
im yerkar andzrevot yeghanak
my breasts
my burden —
my long rainy season
ふところに乳房ある憂さ梅雨長き
(Nobuko Katsura, Japan)
Other translations of this poem:
The nuisance
of breasts –
a long rainy season
(Leza Lowitz)
gloom in my bosom
comes about by means of breasts
long monsoon rains
(Kala Ramesh)
Quel ennui,
ces seins!
Longue saison des pluies.
(French translation by Dominique Chipot & Makoto Kemmoku)
Dieser Schmerz, unter dem Kleid
meine Brüste zu spüren –
Regenzeit, so lang!
(German translation Oskar Benl, Géza S. Dombrády and Roland
Schneider)
乳房
的累赘 –
一个漫长的雨季。
(Chinese translation by Chen-ou Liu, 劉鎮歐)
17 Saturday Oct 2015
Tags
Addis Ababa, Arba Lijoch, Armenia, Armenian Genocide, Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I, Kwame Dawes, poem, Poetry, sonnet
— for Kwame Dawes
Crown Prince Ras Tafari brought the children
of Arba Lijoch out of the desert —
Orphans who became Ethiopian,
who sang of the Metz Yeghern, the Great Hurt;
composed, “Marsh Teferi,” the first music
Marcus Garvey heard while in audience.
I, too, have heard of, “Natural mystic
blowing/ through the air,” Ararat’s fragrance
in each word. I’m told, Babylon crashing.
Where in Kingston is the orchestral sound
of Addis Ababa? — I listen — I
listen, but the dance halls tell me nothing.
The ghosts of Van hang low in the background.
Who will sing their song? Tell their prophesy?
Notes:
Arba Lijoch were a group of forty Armenian orphans who had escaped from the 1915 atrocities in Turkey, and were afterwards adopted by Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia. He had met them while visiting the Armenian monastery in Jerusalem; they impressed him so much that he obtained permission from the head of the Armenian church, the Catholicos, to adopt and bring them to Ethiopia, where he then arranged for them to receive musical instruction. The Arba Lijoch arrived in the capital city, Addis Ababa, in 1924, and along with their conductor, Kevork Nalbandian, became the first official orchestra of the nation. Nalbandian also composed the music for Marsh Teferi (words by Yoftehé Negusé), which was the Imperial National Anthem from 1930 to 1974. Metz Yeghern is the Armenian word for their Great Calamity, their genocide.
03 Saturday Oct 2015
Tags
I love the cows best when they are a few feet away
from my dining-room window and my pine floor,
when they reach into kiss me with their wet
mouths and their white noses.
I love them as they walk over garbage cans
and across cellar doors, over the sidewalk and through the metal chairs
and the birdseed.
— Let me reach out through the thin curtains
and feel the warm air of May.
It is the temperatures of the whole galaxy,
all the bright clouds and its clusters,
beasts and heroes,
glittering singers and isolated thinkers
at pasture.
03 Saturday Oct 2015
Posted in Poetry
≈ Comments Off on the ancient tongue of the sea
le mar la
mer le mar