dark one

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jellies

Still-life with Lilith and a night-blooming
sea rose. You are hard and I’m soft with song,
with all the love born long ago from your
song. I’ve found that loving bitter sick-sweat
from any other out of the question.

What can make certain songs flame into life?
and other songs will simply drown out? Dark
One in the vast depths, I know your name but
will not speak it. I have swam with shark gods
and felt no fear. Maximus of Tyre wrote
that Sappho was “small and dark,” but Plato
called her beautiful. I’ve gone to the cliff
where she threw herself into the churning
undertow, saw how you came to claim her.

I dream of you, cameltoe and all. Blue,
blue is the sea. Red, red is your last kiss.
Green, green your first spliff and sip of vodka.
Shark-soul, spirit-lover. I love soft boys
and stone-hard women: the queen and the butch.
I love the sea rose blooming in your hair.

what’s your beef with the mac?

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hqdefault

Tony Harrison: [Saboo and Tony Harrison are DJ-ing] I’ve got it, Saboo! A concept is formulating! Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” in its entirety!

Saboo: [groans]

Tony Harrison: Watch the room crumble at the awe of the H-man.

Saboo: Are you insane? Maybe there is one track I could get away with off, maybe, “Rumors.”

Tony Harrison: Oh, come off it. “Tusk,” in its entirety, with the pauses, as Lindsey Buckingham intended it to be heard.

Saboo: Yeah, why don’t you just give me a .44 so I can spray my brains all over the decks?

Tony Harrison: What is your beef with the Mac?

Saboo: The same beef every right-thinking man has: they are bullshit-munchers.

Tony Harrison: When are you gonna start thinking outside the box?

Saboo: The box is there for a reason; to keep ball-men like you inside it.

Tony Harrison: You are so square! What do you want to lay down?

Saboo: I would like to play “Would I Lie to You” by Charles and Eddie.

Tony Harrison: Ahhhhh… all right, fair enough. Good choice. Slam it down.

oh, ‘lizabeth, it’s the big one! i’m a gonna regenerate!

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Oh, 'lizabeth!  It's the big one!  I'm a gonna regenerate!!!

Not owning a TV it’s hard for me to watch a whole lot of shows, but there are some I follow because brain-candy is fun and sometimes turning one’s brain off is just what the doctor ordered. Speaking of which, it might come as a shock to some, but another white male has been cast as the role of the 12th Whovian Doctor, raising the question of why couldn’t the ever-changing time-lord be played by, say, a woman or an actor of color or an American with a really thick Texas accent? This prompted some on-line debate as to who, exactly, would make the best Doctor if Richard Ayoade turned down the future role. Samuel “Galifreyan, mutherfucker! Do you speak it?” Jackson won the popular vote but I grew up watching Sanford and Son, have always adored Redd Foxx’s role and the running gag of him pretending to have a heart attack whenever things do not go his way, crying out to his dead wife, “You hear that, ‘lizabeth? I’m coming to join ya, honey!” Of course it’s been pointed out to me that Redd Foxx is dead, but why let something like that ruin my fun?

how she came

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Darkness. Darkness. And then words. Ma-ma-ma
and Ha-ha-ha. Hit a rock, it splinters,

you say. First there was the Sun and the Moon,
Yahweh and Shekhinah, Good and Evil.

But pairs do not interest, for in-between
the sun and moon lies the Milkyway and

from the flesh of Yahweh and Shekhinah
arose double-heads and hermaphrodites,

night jars and what’s called pleasure. I brushed rouge
into her cheeks, painted black kohl around

the rims of her eyes; tied up her hair. She
was something else. An ironwood stick. Shattered

stone. The first words ever spoken: ma-ma-
ma. Her flesh was sea-salty with darkness.

Rising on a tongue rooted deep within.
All poetry needs primordial roots.

lilith: an invocation and reply

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1: INVOCATION

In the sea-lapped waves you roamed. Across years
you roamed – war years, love years, blood years – any
place that knew of the moon’s pull and the clits
and cunts and the sweat-kissed thighs of lovers.
I have looked for you in Sumeria,
Babylon and Persia. I have hunted
through Canaanite lands; talked to the Hebrew
and Teutonic tribes. Everywhere your love
was a sin, your books burned, your name a curse.

][][

Lilith, lover-mother, exile, fire-haired,
she-demon of the wasteland. If no one
will declare devotion to you I must
do so now and if no one will write books
of splendor for you I must write one now.

][][

In Sumer you were called Lil, storm spirit.
Among the Semite tribes you were confused
with the word for dark night, layil, the source
of all erotic nightmares, nocturnal
orgasms. In Syria they called you
Lamashtu, the child killer, the Winged One,
the Strangleress. You were Adam’s equal,
wife of the devil Samael and the king
Ashmodai, the Queen of Sheba, female
of Leviathan. You were old Yahweh’s
consort while Shekhinah was in exile.

][][

All this you were, but today all these names
are meaningless: Impure Female, Night Jar,
Dame Donkey Legs, Vixen Spirit, The End
Of All Flesh, Harlot, Mi Bruha, Yangu
M’chawi, Al Basti, Midwife, Bitch, Witch.

][][

Everywhere I looked I found you. Across
years and in the sea-lapped waves. In these clits
and these cunts brimming and overflowing;
in this simple form of prayer; in gushing
devotion sticky on my chin, giving
all of us both the sweet and the bitter
and the proof of all this is on my lips.

.
2: REPLY

There is pain here but this marsh is wide, thick
with dune grass. Fill your hips with my moonlight.
I have followed your tracks, lit deep blue flames
to guide you here. Like the tide you must come
soon. We’ll burn the sun in the firmament
with the hurting fire we call desire.

Image

shark in a wave, rick amor

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Rick Amor Shark in a Wave 2002 Oil on canvas

Rick Amor, Shark in a Wave, 2002. oil on canvas.

After watching a rough cut of the 1982 film Blade Runner, author Philip K. Dick asked director Ridley Scott, in amazement, “how did you know what I saw in my head?”

That is what I thought when I first saw this painting. Standing on a jetty at Coos Bay, Oregon. Watching a shadow from the deep pass through the waves in front of me. Changing my life forever.

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

asking for a little advice

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clit 101

clit 101

Perhaps.

I’m putting together a book of cunnilingus poetry and am curious which art I should use to illustrate it with? I’ve placed almost everything I’ve done to date on the Licking Velvet page, though truth be told know I that I am a bit biased when it comes to these things since I like everything but sill I need to limit the book to around 50 pieces.

Any suggestions, comments and criticisms are more than welcome. Hope all is well and thank you. Cheers!

ghost hunger [rewrite]

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In this spirit’s world, this less than human
mouth goes down on you. Each chill, ghost fingers
unzip your fly, pull your knickers to one
side, while this ectoplasm tongue slithers
inside. How far out are we? Knuckles deep.
You suck all the air out of your lungs. Vast
forces are at work when twilight can’t sleep.
Delirium and the dead; an outcast
at your gate. This is beyond mingled breath.
Beyond love in the dead years. Do not die
just yet, my lover. Take me as I come
inside you. Then, a small cry, a small death.
Come like sick chaos, like a devil’s cry,
a blood fountain, a ghost hunger, bedlam.

scar [rewrite]

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I can trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. I can kiss her lithic
muscles making her tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirteen men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
that part I will not name, that talisman
you call a lifetime of love, my dear heart
blooms. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she bucks, gushes like a volcano’s
blow, clamping my face in place. Her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
sword hacked scars to each of her missing toes.

NOTE:

This is a rewrite of a poem I posted back in March.

drink you dry

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And we are physical shape; to give voice,
to feel, to give pause, I brush out your hair
(no there was no hairbrush, only a choice
to comb my fingers through the empty air
where your hair might once have been). So tonight
I hope you will not be disappointed.
And since I’ve drunk from your gash of sunlight
I think I’ve become sad at your wasted
beauty. I have a purple bruise on one
ankle. True. I don’t know you as keenly
as I thought I did. I have grown remote
under my skin. No frenzy. Please listen.
Once I drank you dry but now I simply
gag on the rose left blooming in my throat.