bestial

25 Sunday Feb 2024

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Shan’t know, I suppose. So I’ll go … I’m gone …

watch me, “went.” To find that blessed spot. Even

that sounds like a joke. Flesh Gordon. Sex Spawn.

Deep throat Nine. Whimsy, chaos & semen.

Even Leia’s, “Into the Garbage Chute,

Fly boy,” made you snicker; though sodomy

remains a tribal language. That & brute

passion, which is also a force. Your knees

around my neck. Your nails digging fjords

down my back. I tongue-fuck that spot & you

groan like the ravenous Bugblatter Beast

that you are. That spot? You hit the high chords

each time. Messy mirth is always taboo;

messy, whimsy, chaos with lips well-greased.

Note.

The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a fictional monstrosity from, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. File it under: Other People’s Pillow Talk.

retch

18 Sunday Feb 2024

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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The gods had ceased singing. My verse had cooled,

then dried up. Nightmares, livid with love, came

with puke and drool, as if I’d somehow fooled

Temperance. As if self-restraint and shame

only bedeviled others. And today? ¬

Six years have passed. The bloat has left my face.

¬ Scars on my liver. ¬ Scars on my wordplay. ¬

Lifetime of scars, self-loathing and disgrace;

cuz’ who dies clean? Pffft. Thomas? Poe? Sexton?

Saints of excess. ¬ Today? This day. ¬ Call this

a small price to pay. ¬ Of these fifty-four

years six were spent sober. Without swollen,

flushed flesh. Without the gods, “taking the piss.”

¬ Without retch. ¬ Without fucking up hardcore.

note.

Today, 2/18/2024, marks my 6th year anniversary of entering Recovery. As they say, one day at a time.

gall

21 Sunday Jan 2024

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Tallow in winter. That long-toothed ruin

wrung from drippings. The decay of Eros

dribbling down my wrist. Say it in Latin.

[Demon] [Possession] “Daemonicus.”

Possession. Mine. Flesh rendered so I’m fit

for your gluttony. Yet something fetid

hangs in the frozen air. Frostbit. The bit

that was a nose, two lips, one pale eyelid.

Frostbite leaves the dark pit in my skull

exposed. It takes a certain hungry gall

to snog with just any possessed bastard.

They say if you can’t be a good example

then be a grisly warning. Gouged; I’m all

brittle bone. Now kiss me like a blizzard.

frets

01 Monday Jan 2024

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Death is cold. I am cold. I must be death;

thin as rain, thin as chill. My haunt’s haunting.

Thrill of dire distress mixed up with your breath.

Pleases? I am, “of an age,” where nothing

pleases. Even frenzy feels frayed; its pink

velvet border rubbed away. Once, a whiff

of your breath kept me going for days. Kink,

as in kinky. Now? [– –] You cough, snort and sniff

what’s in your sloughed lungs. Kissing the lovelorn

has lost its appeal. [– –] My nipples are hard,

like a mood killer. Once you wrote, “your nudes

are safe with me.” No, they weren’t. Revenge porn,

the kids called it. Even my scars are scarred.

I’m not death. I’m the one who frets and broods.

lavash

27 Wednesday Dec 2023

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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There’s dough in my hair, flour on my fingers.

Lick them clean. These fingers. I’m leaving.

Kiss me clean. Obscene what this finger stirs

in you. All day long you’ve seen me making

flat bread. Lavash. Song of cracked wheat. Fable

of dough rolled flat, slapped against the Tonir’s

brick wall. The dead’s flat food and what the skull

won’t eat I will. Breathe in all these odors.

Simple smells at night fall imbued with grief.

When you make bread, you make me; when you roll

dough flat you touch me. I’m leaving; come clean

me one last time. My lips, my flesh, this brief

hint at soul. I’ll be ghostly so soon. Soul,

love me like this: obscene, obscene, obscene.

notes:

Lavash is a popular flat bread in Armenia. Tonir is a stone oven used to cook the bread, similar to an Indian Tandoor.

demotic

12 Tuesday Dec 2023

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& I yanked your hair until you whimpered

& moaned. I call this, too, a sacred act.

This queer cheer. Odd? Odd that the only pact

between us was no pact at all. Squandered

without ache, spurt or need. Without my root

in your root cellar; stretch marks, scabs, stubborn

scars. Proof that the euphoric brute in Brute

Love is still love. Worship all that return

to yearn for a blinding flash. Milky spurts.

Spasms. Second comings. “Cum unto me.”

I did. Past tense squander. I am a thing

of dusk; a thing that divides & perverts

both day & night. Even murk is holy.

All this demotic. All this queer hexing.

bop

29 Wednesday Nov 2023

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Meet me near the mine shaft. We’ll put “anal”

back in “Bacchanal.” You know my wet-wired

flesh, fat stall-fed steak, the hole in my skull

that lets the gods in. All that you’ve desired

is here; two palm’s worth, plucked from the motley

pelt of some goat; unkempt, tangle-haired, lop

-legged, chewing on the bark of yon gnarly,

oaken bough. I’m the “bop” in your “She Bop.”

The thrill you seek every Sunday in church.

Gods are a dime a dozen. But this thrill?

This kiss? This holy rude exchange? It’s this

that you want. Dreams to make you gasp and lurch

out of bed, goat dreams, god dreams, dreams to spill,

to flood. Come. The one faith I follow: bliss.

zealous

01 Wednesday Nov 2023

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Waking to the stench of cum and compost.

One more morning. One more old ecstasy.

Waking up with a stranger, with a ghost,

someone else’s dead aunt. You were puffy

with rot, zealous with a whiff of one more

fling, fuck, whatever. I’ve got a nephew’s

hunger for the taboo and your poor, sore

cracked skin. Let the souls of sex addicts choose

me and not the Nether world. Goosebumps came

as you dug your cracked nails into my skin,

as I clutched the sheets and groaned. Willingly

given. Brutally taken … without shame.

Death is a small price to find your fuck-twin.

Celestial desire. Queer mercy.

crossing and fixing

18 Wednesday Oct 2023

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Summer comes dressed in tight blue. So do you,

bewitchingly. Proof that this Craft’s, “glamour,”

is more than just words. I named you: taboo,

godhead, my eldritch ne’er-do-well. You stir

in me and my cum-coked skivvies. Dour night

after night. Mirthlessly awake in bed …

so much glum cum so I named you: ghost-light,

just like religion, but with a godhead

climax. It’s been ages since I have … laughed

myself dizzy; sang, “tight blue/ tight like you;”

took to crossing and fixing. We all want

a bit of unreal; the “itch” in witchcraft;

touch of ghost-skin; to be one of the few

that you’ll gladly return to, just to haunt.