coitus carnalis

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Photos of you from the 80s: your permed

mullet, day-glo spandex, braces. You mused

 

about your lovers: the first girl who squirmed

under your tongue, the first boy who abused

 

your bum. We wouldn’t have been friends back then.

You liked dudes, ripped and mean. I was neither.

 

What was the term? “Art fag”? Still, tonight, sin,

a slick mess, has brought us to this. Cancer

 

has not dimmed your ardor. Your husband snores

upstairs. Your younger self stares down on us.

 

I have to wonder if she’d be surprised

to find you spread wide? skewered? on all-fours

 

like beasts? Slow, deep feast — coitus carnalis

— cum now, I think that she’d be scandalized.

what escapes

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Say that submissiveness is a wavelength

simply seeking proper context. You wet

 

yourself, you say, because your secret strength

comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets

 

arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished

juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,

 

you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”

you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes

 

between us is slick. We burble. We rave.

We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s

 

prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,

they say, you will come again. That this wave

 

in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers

to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.

NOTE:

My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.

prove

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It’s not breaking off the tooth, it’s the living

with the exposed root. You are gone. You are

 

gone. I know that the rain is still falling,

that the earth is still sublime, that the star

 

I named you for is still out there, somewhere.

It’s this morbid time, time on my hands, time

 

to think that I can drink away despair,

fuck away all this pain. Time for sublime

 

errors in judgment. Pain will be the death

of me but what does pain prove? They still move:

 

the rain, the earth, the stars, all that must part

must part. I held you. You took your last breath.

 

You are gone. Let this long sober pain prove

that I love you, little blessing, dear heart —

little bliss

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Death then? Love now. Love what teaches. Despair

combined with sex and poor impulse control

 

teaches. During a game of Truth or Dare

I learned that the emotional black-hole

 

called my psyche isn’t good at keeping

friends. The Dare: show me base pleasures. Others

 

tsk’d-tsk’d. Look where it got them. Still, snogging

takes groin-stirring skill and I know what stirs

 

your groin, or so I thought. I got confused

and then frightened when you began to cry.

 

That was neither long death or little bliss,

only shame. When friends say that they felt used

 

that’s on you. Learn from this, fool. Don’t reply

with a sigh that a kiss is just a kiss —

bereft

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But just then temperance whispers: you are dull

sober. You’re still a shit and self-possessed —

 

the way devils possess the infidel,

the way cancer still lurks in your left breast

 

— possessed and achingly lonely. Restraint

didn’t change that. All mild calm has brought you

 

is new panic, all your old fears, that quaint

dread of future fuck-ups to come. You knew

 

that there’d be hell to pay but why is hell

so worn? forlorn? The last horned god has left

 

the woods, the last great shark fished from the sea.

This is your inheritance. You shall tell

 

of your riches — flat, gray, cut off, bereft

— and all that happens after ecstasy.

lapse

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Friends don’t fuck, your father claimed. True, perhaps,

though I don’t know what else to call these acts

 

of ours, waiting for your school bus. Relapse?

Bare backsliding? Snu-snu? I’d say that facts

 

argue that friends do, often, savagely.

I might be a corrupting influence …

 

though your fascination with sodomy

started long before, you claim. The fragrance

 

of sweat, cum and new knowledge fills the air,

your sheets all splotched. Once I swore that I’d end

 

it with you … the way that all addicts do.

Now I lapse, gaily. Now I just don’t care

 

what your father thinks. True, you are my friend

as well as why I love all that’s taboo.

sloshed

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How do the sober mate? The ones not drunk

on quick kisses. Who don’t drop to their knees

 

on the first date. Who tuck their luscious junk

away and never learn how to say, “please,

 

cum-plum, I need more.” More libertine sex

magic and all the proteins found in cum.

 

More rough gods and nipple clamps. More objects

designed for pleasure. Imagine Sodom

 

as a lazy date night. The world is ours.

Imagine a kiss that leaves you stoned, sloshed,

 

flushed. Imagine me knocking on your door.

Debauched acts: what soils the soul in others

 

is our prayer. Pray savage, come drunk, unwashed.

Tell me that you want this … that you need more.

vulgarity

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— on  Beltane (May 1st)

 

Summer heat in the forest. Green rage, haze.

Too hot. Too sluggish. The wind-bells don’t stir.

 

The birds don’t stir. Too sultry for dull praise

and dull ritual — Only the lover

 

and the witch stir; all who pray erect, wet

to touch, open to air — Only lovers

 

whose skin sheens, whose kisses come slick with sweat,

who cum as gushings, downpours, flood waters.

 

A touch of sodomy between the trees.

A touch of vulgarity; satyrs blush

 

when they see us together. Praise this sleaze

and all that it has wrought. Praise rush and gush,

 

the tongue in your mouth, the flesh of your rump

in this haze; all that is muscled, round, plump.

thrimilce

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In the Season of Slosh, dank and swampy,

in Thrimilce, the Month of Three Milkings,

 

when all that drips and rains and bleeds in me,

each spurt and geyser, will be offerings.

 

Nothing is as bewitching; a horned god

in the spring heat, long and lovely and lush.

 

Green heat: I want to impale you, ramrod

you in sacrifice to the forest. Gush,

 

as sap gushes, down your garlands. Cock-slap

your blithe face, stretching jaw, your bulging throat.

 

In juice is joy, they say. In cum wisdom.

Bless the sacred; be it spit, seed or sap.

 

Bless the damp earth. Bless lovers that devote

themselves daily to wisdom and to cum.

][][

Note: “Thrimilce,” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the month of May, when the animals of the earth are so fertile that the ewes can be milked three times a day.

noontide

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Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt

spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant

and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass

as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass

veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want

consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,

in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.