Category Archives: sonnet

phantasmic slit

07 Tuesday Nov 2017

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Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer

cesarean incision that will bear

me no child and will never heal. All fear

rests right here (between hip and hip) right there

(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra

do I need to drive a knife through to keep

myself from feeling this way? Since vodka

only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep

without dreaming let me run fingernails

across my phantasmic slit; that which you

can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut

this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s

trail that not even the gods can undo.

A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.

ravenous

03 Friday Nov 2017

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The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.

colossus

02 Thursday Nov 2017

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First I took clay, breathed over it. In my mouth:
sand, storm, burning sky. Then I fashioned it,

beloved, into you and everywhere — south,
north, down, up — paused, listened to this misfit

magic. The breeze listened. The bread listened.
The knot listened. The dawn listened. Sun dawned.

I woke you up; painted your lips, crimsoned
your eye-holes. You blinked twice, sat up and yawned.

This is before the Bengal cat tail-plug
that you loved. Before you learned desire

and walked through this world like a colossus.
You were famished. You ate drug after drug;

all I had. That first trip you simply were,
beloved, all naked, divine, monstrous.

bewitchingly

31 Tuesday Oct 2017

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I am naked all day to match my mood —
The French must have a word meaning, “almost

euphorically horny.” It’s why I’m nude
writing this to you now, little sad ghost

that no one wants. Come over, I want you.
We can preen, paint our nails, slurp tea, snuggle

or do that one thing that the living do
to feel better. That one obscene, shameful,

sublimely fun act that you have not done
in ages. We will be naked chums, bosom

pals, wild playmates. Little sad ghost, lover,
delight is contagious, and so is fun.

Life is too short for sorrow and boredom.
Come here. Get undressed. I miss your laughter.

bless the hips

26 Thursday Oct 2017

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Pleasure is full of invisible things
that you feel but just dimly know. Darkness —

split in half, shaman-child, by climax — brings
visions; hawk of Venus, fox of Eros.

To ripe. To rot. Cum’s bloom. We both follow
sparks that all these fingers, cocks and cunts give.

Sessing insights in that moment of glow.
Call it depraved but what god won’t forgive

naughty when it feels good? Don’t try to sess
all those who love the husks but not the fruits.

Those who stop praying when the spirit’s sky
fills them even for a second. We bless

the hip’s bliss; not old trees but their deep roots;
not the zealot’s cry but our cum-deep sigh.

graven

18 Wednesday Oct 2017

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It’s not narcissism to want sadism
and the knotted lash. Get treated like trash

after orgasms— after opium—
let raunch remain. Thrash marks. Ash from your hash

pipe in your hair. Face down. Ass up. You glare
from clove-hooded lids, gape wide while queer fluids

drip from your cheeks. You swear that this is prayer.
Faith needs pain. I’ve sucked on your nipple studs

— ridden you to ruin. Burnt you. Graven
image that you are. Each stroke is the stroke

that might break you, but won’t. The sky is bright,
we are alive and O soul! What Latin

means a furious fuck? We smoke. We toke.
We are all the essences that unite.

like fog three fingers

17 Tuesday Oct 2017

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First came morning London fog, thickening
curtains beyond the door that your husband

just left from. Then a curious rapping
at your kitchen door. In all of England:

you, from Mumbai, I, an exchange student,
became neighbors. You giggled (thirteen-years

older than me, ex-doctor, now pregnant
housewife) then let me in. Rejection, fear,

isolation — the gloom of the soul — stirs
queer sides in us all. “You’ll call me Aunty,”

you said, rising from your knees, your boredom
gone, your grin gone wet like fog, three fingers

running across your cheek, nose, the bindi
moon on your forehead, all splattered with cum.

boreas’ curse

07 Saturday Oct 2017

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The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst

time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse

lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,

because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.

Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.

Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle

deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”

faith and deceit

25 Monday Sep 2017

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Records of the soul: that is erotic —
between rapture we all keep fucking up

(all these bodily fluids) Be vulvic/
phallic/ the space between: cork-screw, scallop,

fingers in the deep dark. When the dead cheat
on you do you cheat back? The dead don’t care

and so you write about faith and deceit
which is piety, but nothing like prayer.

Faith means that you’ll put up with anything
just to be heard. Prayer touches, that’s what matters.

You are beloved and you are everything.
You’re god-talk. Erotica. The answers.

For them: procreation is the sinkhole.
For the rest of us: rapture is our soul.

tía

22 Friday Sep 2017

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Defiled, bent over, your pucker glistened
as I pushed in deeper; little maelstroms

ran all through your thighs. That night your husband
was out of town, your son was at your mom’s;

I slept over only once. “Sé cuánto
quieres follarme el culo,” you joked

on the phone. All week you’d used a dildo
to stretch yourself out, and now, panting, soaked,

you groaned, “¡Dámelo duro!” so I did.
None of this lasted. The pillows loathed us.

The birds woke us. I went home. That was it.
Your taste, laugh, the inked Aztec pyramid

above your ass: all gone. I was anxious,
so young, you were my «Tía» so brilliant.

][][
Notes:
I use several phrases in Spanish in this poem. “Tía,” is the simple word for aunt. The best that I can do with, “Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo,” is, “I know how much you want to fuck my ass.” Finally, “¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “Harder!” or, “Give it to me hard!” All matters of the heart are bittersweet.