Category Archives: Poetry

you see the merchandise

01 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Carve me a toothpick; I have one curled hair
stuck in-between my incisors. These chapped

hips, this silicon knob with its horsehair
tail, these boots. Have I ridden you? or “tapped

your ass,” as Butch Lisette once claimed? Of course
not. Please forgive my friends, they are … so young,

obsessed with sending nude selfies. They’re coarse
little things, amusements. But you? Your tongue

itches to taste this, no? Peace. Come closely.
Pull up your trousers. Look out the window.

Be still, pet. What do you see? The merchandise
of lust; the night hums with it. But for me

I’m done with stroking needy libidos.
That’s how much I adore you: more than vice.

cuts you up

01 Wednesday Apr 2015

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[I have] [no] [words for] [this flesh I] [just wish]
[the whole] [world was flooded] [hip] [deep I do]

[fear] [that] [I’ll wake] [under water that] [squish]
[sound when] [I move my] [thighs, some] [membrane-goo]

[that I] [can’t pull] [off; Venus] [in the sky]
[There should be a] [photo] [I’d share my] [rude]

[crotch, my wiry hair] [my scars my] [marked] [thigh]
[I love] [my] [thigh but there] [isn’t. Rough-hewed]

[flesh is not] [fit for such] [things I love] [how]
[both] [legs look under] [water, yet] [water]

[floods in] [when I] [open] [my mouth] [Venus]
[if you would just] [possess me] [once more] [Now]

[liquid] [laps. My] [limbs curl] [in] [I’m the] [slur]
[without words] [What] [Burroughs called the virus]

check your tongue

31 Tuesday Mar 2015

Posted by in Feminism, Poetry, sonnet

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Of my three aunts, Sylvia, Adrienne
and Anne, two killed themselves and one refused

to look at me. I’ve loved them. I’ve loved gin,
static-buzz, bone-fever — all that confused

their words with being something more. “Nomen
est omen:” call me, “Left Behind.” Call her:

“Matertera.” Without these three women
what am I? Check your tongue about that slur

that I’ve broken my pact made between gods
and their dire verse; as if either pleased.

Tonight I want an aunt’s voice that marauds
through my skull, that translates all that buzzed

into something. Confessions. I love them.
I love their words. Their so-called hate and sin.

omit

31 Tuesday Mar 2015

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“Suckle my flesh.” There should be more, of course,
something about, “your kisses on my clit,”

“your two fingers inside,” and “my voice, hoarse,
urgent,” “my flesh sweating, flushed.” I omit

the rest because this isn’t about that.
Somewhere a girl sleeps on flagstones, under

thatch-roof and dry-stone walls. A witch’s brat
who knows nothing about lust, that other

magic. No, not even that. So, what then?
Quote from the Torah, Bible or Koran

about female nature being sinful?
Hell no! We go down to the beach, again,

naked breasts wearing shadows of a tan,
watching waves rush in and out like a bull.

rifts

21 Saturday Mar 2015

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Come, love. We don’t bring them into focus,
or cast shadows upon the dim water,

or rouse them out to talk. No, no. For us
it’s about patience; when the gray weather

becomes neither sea nor sky, when the birds
hide in the drab grass sands, when the wind shifts

so that glacial waves are lulled by the words
that we both must speak. I’ve charted the rifts

between our two worlds. I’ve drunk from their cup.
I’ve made us a pact; because I love them.

It’s OK to be frightened, downcast and glum.
I was. We all will be. Yes, it’s fucked up.

Yes, I’d rather not, but … even mayhem
can’t save us. The rifts open. Come, love, come.

silly little cough

20 Friday Mar 2015

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“I want a mythology that can’t be referenced”

one of us must be the Story Teller
and one listen:

He is never mine boy
made of nine-tails

tossed in a fever, words
like laudanum

make little sense to
the fox lad in

red goose-down,
a lavish bark stripling,

prodigal yip while
letters writhes in the

air over his bed, he
(gender vulgar

yet warm) of the nine-
tails each no bigger

than the joint of
his finger woke, silly

little cough in his
breast (breast of breasts) came

in a flurry of
distractions and fur

so he shook the water-
pipe. He woke and

shook his head his fever finally broken,
my words on his wall gone –

fantasma guloso [greedy ghost]

20 Friday Mar 2015

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“I had almost forgotten how good it is to be licked – kissed – smeared –”

Be for me the language
that redeems me.

Mortal flesh is weak, but
I am apocalyptic: she-devil
in heat.

I am your horny sister
cursed with
chastity.

“Greedy Ghost.” (desire
takes shape) “Feel this wet tongue
slide and your juice returns
to condition of the living.”

][][

“Eu quase havia esquecido como é bom ser lambido – beijado – lambuzado –”

Seja comigo uma língua
que me redime.

Carne mortal é fraca, mas
eu sou apocalíptica: um diaba
no cio.

Eu sou o seu tesão irmã
amaldiçoado com
castidade.

“Fantasma guloso.” (desejo
toma corpo) “Sentir a língua molhada
deslizar enquanto o teu suco retorna
à condição de vivos.”

gosto [taste]

20 Friday Mar 2015

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TASTE

Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.

Throbbing fruit
fresh. My mouth

on your skin. A light kiss
with the touch

of the tongue.
Suck your

fruit; with a grip,
howling, and hair

pulling. Strange
fruit.

][][

GOSTO

Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.

Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha boca

na teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toque

da língua.
Chupo teu

fruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxão

de cabelo. Fruto
estranho.

Bilac’s DELÍRIO

20 Friday Mar 2015

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Olavo Bilac, Delirium

Naked since love doesn’t need shame
In my her mouth I pressed.
And, as for carnal thrills, she said:
“Lower down, baby, I want your kiss!”

Crude, unconsciousness of my desire
Trembling, my mouth obeyed,
And I bit her taut breasts
So that she gasped like broken chords.

In endless sighs of joys
She told me, still almost crying:
“Lower down, baby!” – All in a frenzy.

On her belly I laid my mouth,
“Lower, baby!” – She said, crazy,
Puritans, forgive me! but I obeyed …

][]][

Delírio

Nua, mas para o amor não cabe o pejo
Na minha a sua boca eu comprimia.
E, em frêmitos carnais, ela dizia:
– Mais abaixo, meu bem, quero o teu beijo!

Na inconsciência bruta do meu desejo
Fremente, a minha boca obedecia,
E os seus seios, tão rígidos mordia,
Fazendo-a arrepiar em doce arpejo.

Em suspiros de gozos infinitos
Disse-me ela, ainda quase em grito:
– Mais abaixo, meu bem! – num frenesi.

No seu ventre pousei a minha boca,
– Mais abaixo, meu bem! – disse ela, louca,
Moralistas, perdoai! Obedeci …

note:

Olavo Brás Martins dos Guimarães Bilac (1865 – 1918) was a Brazilian poet, journalist and translator. This poem comes from his, Poesias (1888)