Just for fun
I put Mother on my back.
She weighs so
little that I started crying
and can’t walk three steps.
Ishikawa Takuboku
02 Friday Oct 2015
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Category Archives: Poetry
motoko michiura
02 Friday Oct 2015
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someday
I’ll turn to water —
that’s when
the blood of my parents
will come to an end.
mind in the waters
02 Friday Oct 2015
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in summer heat
whale book for a pillow
i hear her moan
the peel sessions
15 Tuesday Sep 2015
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, quote unquote, sonnet
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Ill kept, bad investment, this aftermath
when we drift off to sleep. Some want two sips
I need a whole damn ocean, a bloodbath.
I know about quenching. How the bullwhip’s
handle, when pressed just so, can stem your whole
deluge. I’ll leave it there. To wet my lips
and then moisten my mouth, rupture your soul.
I run my fingers through you, though what drips.
I call it soul — something that I can touch.
Slake. We all have appetites and there’s bliss
when at last full. It’s what copper suggests
on the tongue from peeling fruit. Insomuch
as my tongue can peel your fruit from this kiss,
this pulp, this sweat pooling between your breasts.
wet charcoal
04 Friday Sep 2015
Tags
crone, don't get cocky, maiden, mother, poem, Poetry, slashed bole, sonnet, wet charcoal
Don’t get cocky — Everything can get blown
apart. There’s no help the way I’m wired.
Vast sky: I am small. Mother, Maiden, Crone:
be with me as I drift — I’m still tired.
My name sounds rough in your tongue. This slashed bole
of a stump means that there’s no way I can
cling tight, I’ll just leave smears like wet charcoal.
I’ve read the Bible, Torah and Koran:
all man-made laws that restrict my sisters
restrict me — When they came for the sissies
and the butches I was high strung enough
to stand my ground, though there are some horrors
you can’t beat — how do I love these slashes
or find a name that doesn’t sound rough —
claim
01 Tuesday Sep 2015
There’s those who want to be told that they’re good
— Specially in bed — Specially after
doing something bad. This code: “Spinsterhood,”
meaning — good or bad — I love you, sister.
Does it matter that we don’t look the same?
That you can’t take me anywhere? Come close,
I would like to whisper to you my claim.
The one that you can’t share. And yet, what glows
between your legs, in your throat, on your tongue
— I call it a gift — talent uncommon.
You’re a good, sister, even when naked.
Even when you’re more than bad, say, wicked.
I have tasted your passions — though I’m young
enough to be your child, if you had one.
dead chick
14 Friday Aug 2015
Tags
adolescent thighs, afro, dead chick, Detroit pool hall, drunk and alive, erotic poetry, Lezzie Sex Fiend, Mina Loy, sonnet
“A silver Lucifer/ serves
cocaine in cornucopia
To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs …”
— Mina Loy, “Lunar Baedeker”
][][
Back when I use to be alive and drunk
on stale sweat and beer. An amazon leaned
on her stick, fingers blue with chalk. Some punk
band screamed in the jukebox, “Lezzie Sex Fiend,”
I think, while another girl bent to take
her shot, her afro brushing the green felt.
Detroit girls in pool halls, full of the ache
of first love and adolescence. I’ve dwelt
among their shadows. It’s where you found me;
in the toilet stall, calling me “cousin.”
Because I’m neither drunk nor alive. “Lick
me here” — And I do. You taste beer-salty.
“Damn, girl, that’s nasty,” you say. “Shit, your skin’s
stone-cold — Cousin, you’re one fucked-up dead chick.”
at times willingly
11 Tuesday Aug 2015
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“Delight in the video” — I don’t play
too many lover’s games. All that vanity
turned sour some time ago. Yet I obey
simple commands, and at times willingly.
It’s what you do in public. Curious
that you’ll take it far enough to almost
get caught each time, almost. It’s that boldness
that no one else sees in you. Like a ghost
you mark where you’ve been with dripping,
sticky fingerprints — After the vodka
tonics you type, “Hit Play.” The video
starts. Where are you? Pay toilet? Sitting
down, you smile — staring into the camera.
“This is for you,” you say, “watch: nice and slow.”
butch cockscomb crawl
07 Friday Aug 2015
Tags
butch cockscomb crawl, erotic poetry, Juicy Lucy's Yurt, sonnet, three-person'd passion, yak milk
Quick, drink up. It’s on me, despite all this.
— Try my red lips like a surgical scar
quickly opened — when you lean in to kiss
you’ll find that my teeth, immense and bizarre,
gleam. Try posing me in a slitted-skirt
with thighs crossed as two girls begin to brawl
over nothing at Juicy Lucy’s Yurt,
where it smells like yak milk, cum and Pinesol.
Mostly I don’t step in. It’s not science,
just cheap alcohol. Try a Butch Cockscomb
Crawl. But tonight’s different — for there are some
who find cold-blooded pleasure in violence.
After the fight I took the two girls home,
despite all this, we made it a threesome.
deathblowjob
29 Wednesday Jul 2015
Tags
Acid Girl, deathblowjob, L.S.Diva, monster squirrel fetish, mutant cells, obedient bodies, Poetry, sonnet
I tell you, sex with a nightmare is odd
but fun. No, it wasn’t a monster squirrel
fetish; she was, in fact, a disease god.
— L.S.Diva aka Acid Girl
aka Small Disease God — I don’t know
exactly the disease she embodied,
a small one, I suppose. The term, “deathblow
job” was hers. Obedient bodies’ need
to feed did not excite her. “You’re immune
system’s failure is what I want,” she’d grunt,
her long forked tongue crazily twined with mine,
fingers touching the lump in my breast. “Soon,
soon.” I don’t mind being loved for my mutant
cells, who can say of cancer, “fuck benign.”
