people like us

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grind howl grunt for I’m nothing but your own
unsavory thoughts your muscles—-tighten
against me pressing fingers down deep bone
deep rump deep clutching your hand tight action
above your head—-I understand—-the hurt
inside you I understand—-why you need
this now quick two fingers can make you squirt
three will rob you—-of humanity greed
some say drives you bullshit I won’t deprive
you of this secret—-deception we know
some say people like us shouldn’t do this
but we love—-the illicitness—-we thrive
on fucks because we both know how need goes
need is doing all this—-just for a kiss

who heard you say no

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Baron Samedi, Dionysus, Don Juan,
these be the masks that men can slip into.

Every culture has its sex gods that spawn
the myth of great sex. What that means to you

ain’t my concern. Tell me, who do women
in your land have when lust’s fire burns within?

Venus? Rati? Freyja? Fuck that Virgin
and Whore dogma. You gonna say that Sin

be just another name for girl pleasures?
Absurd. A bee won’t stop being a bee

because you ignored it, lied about it,
tried to shame it, stupid. I love lovers

who break the rules, who laugh, who aren’t sorry,
who heard you say no and don’t give a shit.

][][

a note:

Most of the time when a writer name drops (especially names 90% of the rest of us haven’t heard of) or uses foreign words or phrases without translating them I end up getting turned off as a reader. Being well read shouldn’t be a license to be conceited. I say that because I use six names that probably most people haven’t heard of before. They are all love gods and goddesses from around the world. At first I tried to leave them out but the whole point of the poem was to show that there are more female erotic archetypes than what we have here in this modern world, which still teaches girls sex is bad, celibacy is good and anyone who actually likes pleasure must be a whore (unless you’re a man … men are never criticized for liking pleasure).

In Voodoo Baron Samedi is loa (spirit) of the dead, sex and resurrection.

In Greek myth Dionysus is the god of wine, ritual madness and homoerotic ecstasy.

Don Juan usually refers to a monster-long poem written by Lord Byron, but he based his story on old Spanish legends of the world’s greatest lover.

Venus is the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Aphrodite.

In Hindu mythology Rati the goddess of passion and lust.

Freyja, in Norse legend, is the goddess associated with love, magic, shamanism, sacrifice, war, death and sexuality.

Video

make much of me

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][][

Crouching close together
in the cooling weather,
with clasping arms and cautioning lips,
with tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“lie close,” Laura said,
and for the first time in her life
began to listen and look
she clung about her sister,
kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her
look at our apples
bob at our cherries,
bite at our peaches,
plums on their twigs;
pluck them and suck them,
pomegranates, figs.
then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
sweeter than honey from the rock,
stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
clearer than water flow’d that juice,
she never tasted such before
she suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
she suck’d until her lips were sore,
brother with queer brother
hugg’d her and kiss’d her,
squeez’d and caress’d her
tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
against her mouth to make her eat.
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
would not open lip from lip
lest they should cram a mouthful in.
but laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
and streak’d her neck
and lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
she cried, Laura,
did you miss me?
come and kiss me.
never mind my bruises,
hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
goblin pulp and goblin dew.
eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
for your sake I have braved the glen
and had to do with goblin merchant men.
her lips began to scorch,
she kissed and kissed her
with a hungry mouth.

][][

Jazz composition based on the poem “Goblin Market,” by Christina Rossetti; recorded at Boss Cupid Studios, Detroit, Michigan (October 5, 2013) All mixing by DJ Liliti.

dead seasons

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Winter is coming—-I’ve hibernated
once, just before, but now I bide my time

in the green houses of this city. Blood
warm hot houses. Others have their bedtime,

bully for them. Let them dream whatever
it is that R-E-M brings—-I seek dull

dank heat, loam and wetness, under amber
bottle glass and ferns and honey suckle

shadows crossed across my shoulders. Pure need
is hard to keep whole in the dead seasons.

Nature knows—-it’s why you fleshy things dream.
But I’m crude—-I’m clay and I cannot feed.

I starve. Under glass I starve for the sun’s
bliss. If dreams are bliss, I can only scream.

new wave

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bind down your breasts strap this on I’ll dress you
up like Freddie Mercury—-in hot pants

and a cute glue-on mustache why make-do
with rum sodomy and the lash? romance

dictates that we’ll both look fabulous in
all that we wear romance states that we can

that we will doggy-style all night skin sin
and up against the wall so what began

as a lark playing dolls ended like this
all my heroes are sixteen and pregnant

slowly until you’re all the way in deep
then pull let the tip of your strap-on kiss

the O of my ass crying “shan’t won’t can’t”
crying like you’re the first to make me weep

she called him her

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Mottled tattoo—-a taboo—-beckoning
her to return to—-sip the fine vintage

of his fourteen-year odd—-essence needing
but a single nip from her—-teeth carnage

blood-blood reopened—-her tongue bathing in
his dusk boy—-blood that sticky grin. The curve

of his cock above the sheet’s skin, boy sin
calling to her fingers. Who has the nerve

to go there when lust is neither legal
nor pure? Caught in—-that dim shadow she did

nothing but obey as her cooled flesh warmed
and she called him her—-cute anal angel

he was all—-that’s taboo—-what we forbid.
All that will leave us a monster transformed.

crazy cats hootch

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putas locas—-brujas—-mis hermanas
on one stormy dawn—-making tea in torn

panties—-all my gods dying and her ass
outlined by the window—-ghosts of still-born

nights now—-now spirits of my cats visit
fifteen jealous souls—-some curl up near me

some curl up in me some—-just sulk poet
for the shade shadow dead hello kitty

and who doesn’t love a wild tenderness?
I use to appease you with cigarettes

and rum—-I hate rum—-now I spend my night
without crazy—-or cats or—-hootch—-jealous

little things—-like a fever without sweats
or a love that refuses to ignite

nelson mandela on terrorist watch lists

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nelon

DID YOU KNOW?

Nobel Peace Prize winner and international symbol of freedom Nelson Mandela was considered a terrorist by the US government and needed special permission to visit the USA all the way up to 2008. This is because in the 1980s South Africa’s ruling white minority declared the anti-Apartheid African National Congress (ANC) a terrorist group and no one in the US government thought to question this until 14 years after the fall of Apartheid.

blowjobs to stangers

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Strange. There’s a small army of us who give
blowjobs to strangers. Like Sucka MCs

or a ten year old with a homemade shiv,
you can’t tell just by looking as we breeze

by you on the street, in your office, out
on the playground. All our worlds are complex,

and so are we. Maybe on a stakeout
at a gloryhole, bathrooms and blind sex,

then you’ll tell—-when you hit a contralto,
like in movies—-each time you orgasm.

A tad crude, but to the point. Then you’ll tell
who is who. All us boys and girls who know

your taste and laugh at you because you cum
and call yourself an erotic rebel.