24 Monday Mar 2014
Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires for you
that glowed plainly in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice—and some
chance obstacle made futile.
Now that all of them belong to the past,
it almost seems as if you had yielded
to those desires—how they glowed,
remember, in the eyes gazing at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
— Constantine Cavafy (translation by Rae Dalven)
21 Friday Mar 2014
Soon when you’re good I’ll show you my Y, gray
shaped scar that cut my chest and clavicles,
sternum and heart, all in half. That which lay
in me was once on display. My devils
made no attempt to be subtle. The art
of the cross-stitch hurt but kept my ugly
bosom together. My guts, pulled apart,
slept on the dissection table. To be
as anatomically correct as this
was a horror-show. Man’s ideal monster
can’t be built, but we try. My Pygmalion
lover saw to that. Listen to the hiss-
whir of dark science that made me neither
god nor demon. I’m not even human.
19 Wednesday Mar 2014
Posted in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Feminism, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
≈ Comments Off on onna bugeisha: daughter mine
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Around the body, puddled, as you breathe,
I feel your heart beating softer, slower,
drying begins from heated bodies. We
play in puddles, this sweet-scented moisture
that glows, cools, as the friction-induced beads
of sweat evaporates. Sunlight slavers
upon hard muscles, what falls, slashed through, bleeds
through these dappled down drapes —- gypsum lovers,
soft, lithe —- our aftermath. The story we’re
leaving for new generations. Daughter,
learn the sword, battle plans, the dialect
of war, for then you’ll protect the queer,
daft and fabulous. A godling savior
no man has ever been: divine, perfect.
19 Wednesday Mar 2014
The boy, at least as I drew him, was blind,
translucent, in gray oil against a pout;
more like a slash than frown, the bitter kind.
The girl, in my sketch, faded in and out,
pulled hair, and kicked my ass for suggesting
the things my pencil drew. What can I say?
Under full moon I’ve watched the dead kissing
and things that were only shadows, dim, gray,
made the beast with two backs, took shape down here.
Am I to blame for showing you what I
saw? Yes, perhaps. Of course. Tonight, the clouds
will hang just so. Dead thing; I’ll kiss that smear
from your lips. Second coming, indeed. Die
once more. I’ll leave you in cum-sticky shrouds.
18 Tuesday Mar 2014
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Mother and son listened to the muffled
voices from the room next door. The babel
of vice in a love hotel. The ribald
grunt of bed-springs breaking. The carnal
sob that comes from a job well done. He played
with her hard nipple, toyed with her swollen
lips. She held his head until he obeyed,
her long curved fingers making a fountain
for him to drown in. Her mouth at his ear,
sliding down his naked skin, cupping him,
her mouth taking in his engorged boy-cock
down to its root. What is sex without fear?
Later, they sighed, sticky with their jism
and bliss. This is what we call “pillow talk.”
17 Monday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on queimando, ardendo, incendiando
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ardendo, art, incendiando, poem, Portuguese translation, queimando, spliff
Pretty and pink, I want to sleep.
Waiting for a touch, I forget you until daybreak.
I am the full moon, if I smoke a joint and excite my libido.
Burning, burning, burning, and then … ashes.
][][
Linda e rosada, quero dormir.
À espera de um toque, quero esquecer até o dia clarear.
Eu sou o lua cheia, se eu fumar um charro, e libido a excitam.
Queimando, ardendo, incendiando, e … cinza.
16 Sunday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on minha língua
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Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.
Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.
Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.
][][
Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.
Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.
Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.
14 Friday Mar 2014
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation
≈ Comments Off on do gosto da vida libidinosa
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do gosto da vida libidinosa, erotic, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste of libidinous life
My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.
][][
Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.
06 Thursday Mar 2014
“and ’tis known a pretty piece of flesh am I.”
— Shakespeare
… is just simple brass trapezoids, organs
attached to organs, atoms to atoms.
The thermometer’s quicksilver lengthens.
Wheels whirr. Steam steams. These retrograde systems,
archaic even, concentric streamlined
gadgets, working elements that Dante
called hell, all of this, everything I find
inside myself, this heart beating away
in the dark, will one day melt into air.
Stop. Cease. Listen. Hear it? The cynic’s star
laughs, makes signs of the hobo and the bum.
What a piece of work caught between despair
and joy. I count the beats, play the guitar
and wait. I’m air. I’m song. I am rhythm.
23 Sunday Feb 2014
Posted in Erotic, hentai, Illustration and art, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on epigrams xi.99
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art, artist unknown, Epigrams XI.99, erotic, hentai, Martial, poem, Poetry, Roman poetry
De cathedra quotiens surgis — jam saepe notavi — pedicant miserae, Lesbia, te tunicae … sic constringuntur gemina Symplegade culi et nimias intrant Cyaneasque natis.
“I’ve noticed when you get up from the couch you’ve been assfucked, Lesbia, by your wretched skirts. Your skirts are caught between your massive cheeks as big as two Gibraltars — it’ll be a tight fit.”
— Martial, «Epigrams XI.99»
memories of my ghost sista 