23 Wednesday Jul 2014
Posted in Erotic, haiku, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on my scandalous love affair with things that go bump in the night
Tags
art, damning erotic life, erotic poetry, grass stains on your knees, haiku, hard ghost, missing moon, things that go bump in the night, your husband's grave
your husband’s tombstone
between all the weeds I steal
our very first kiss
][
before dawn: nightfall
and my dead lover’s cock shall
rise, mount the hard ghost
][
grass stains on your knees,
your back, the palms of your hands,
inside you … the dead
][
spring’s last missing moon
this damning erotic life
the one that we choose
22 Tuesday Jul 2014
summer heat melting
between our lips, hinting at
the downpour to come
16 Wednesday Jul 2014
Tags
Petals of lust. Stamens of dreams. Nightmare
upon horseback. My heart was ripped open;
moonlight in the dust, trampled without prayer,
without mercy. Mustachioed horseman,
blood-red fez, ghost. You planted the horror,
roots like ass’ legs; you have death-head lilies
in place of eyes. The was once a flower
that I loved, for there is no smut or sleaze
when it comes to Nature. No shame. No sin.
That’s Man’s domain. I don’t want a trampled
flower or a dream that promises lust
but can never deliver. Horror-man,
you rise, with your broken tusk you impaled
my curse, you’ll spawn only decay and rust.
15 Tuesday Jul 2014
Posted in Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on hellbent
Tags
Armenian heroine, art, blood sister, hellbent, Mama warrior, Mariam Abandian, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea
will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.
We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,
where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,
let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.
Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung
what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.
12 Saturday Jul 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on thrive
And I imagine that this is how we
need to be: nude, warm, huddled together,
willing to survive anything with me …
Me? We! Except there is no we, lover.
No us. Nothing folded like paper in
onto itself. Nothing to protect us.
Just old skin and bone minus voltage, sin
and salt water. I’m a child of Venus,
Bacchus and Dryads. But you? Who knows now.
Who cares what you call yourself. I did once.
Songs that the hurt always sing. You’ll survive
and go off with someone else. Will your vow
sound just as hollow? Like hell, your brilliance
is to make a corpse look like it can thrive.
12 Saturday Jul 2014
Why does lust burn yet my new underwear
makes you wet? Why is it that when I lick
you here you moan, yet when I lick you there
you say, “No, not that! It’s dirty. That’s sick!”
It’s all sick. That’s the whole point. I asked you,
once, what you think of when you masturbate.
Pretty things, I found out. Nothing taboo,
but that can be fun, too. I was once jailbait,
just like everyone else. My fantasies
involve good and evil; it’s the one thing,
save a straight line, that’s not found in nature.
What I call divine you call sin and sleaze.
Where I pray you won’t go. You say, “Making
love,” not “Fucking.” I say, “I’ll take either.”
10 Thursday Jul 2014
Tags
My nectar will
make you swoon
my sweet rotten
scent will make
you sweat all
noon, your lunch
pale break,
coming
home bewildered
dog, shame-headed,
fury-foot, child,
hoping for more.
05 Saturday Jul 2014
Tags
Cthulhu, cunnilingus, glowing green, haiku, poem, Poetry, Swamp Thing
waiting for thunder
lightning along your green tongue
kiss me here, swamp thing
][
plagued by spring fever
wind parting long curling grass
licking red marsh earth
][
it won’t ever end
it won’t get any better—
this need to be loved
][
under all these stars
addicted to dark matter
Cthulhu, I cum
03 Thursday Jul 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on cropped marshlands
From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust
clear and erect into coming twilight.
How did Freud ever pass through such forests?
They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.
Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates
flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.
Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along
my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.
19 Thursday Jun 2014
Gelding, dwarf star, that carmine snip where dye
soaked in. Where fiber and leather were cut
away. Prayers sung. Eunuchs and castrati
pray just like every other sinner, but
their cries carry weight. The heft of lightning
weighs the same as what Farinelli gained,
perhaps lost. The boy soprano singing
on stage at the Beijing Flying Dragon
Opera House. Lustrey crying with need.
We’ve been sweating in our bed. What choice
do we have? The radio is on. Lulled
by high arias, orgasms and weed.
Lulled by an impossible boy. His voice
shook the bed. You gasped and the world trembled.
][
note:
Farinelli was a celebrated Italian castrato diva of the 18th century and possibly one of the greatest singers in all of opera.
memories of my ghost sista 