, , , , , , , , , ,

“Thrust deep in me,” you said, while the hostel’s

bed groaned. You groaned Greek, then tight Moabite,

your Bronze Age birth tongue. Tight as your muscles

around my cock. You answered my invite,

called me, Dha’i-fah. “One who’s dispossessed

to be possessed by ancient sex demons.”

Such as you. Such is your skill. To be blessed

in a world still perturbed by lewd passions

is still a gift. I’ve searched the Thar, Gobi,

Deir ez-Zor but found you in a simple

hostel in Fez. You said: “Not in my cunt,”

and pulled me free. “Cum here,” guiding me

into your ass. “You don’t know what vulval

nightmares I unleash each time I’m pregnant.”



The Moabite language was spoken in Moab, an ancient kingdom located in what is now Jordan. Fez is a city in northern Morocco. Thar, Gobi and Deir ez-Zor are deserts located in India, Mongolia and Syria respectively. Dha’i-fah is a term used in Morocco concerning certain demonic spirits inability to possess a person whenever they feel like it; rather the victim must be willing and eager for such a possession to take place. Unable to read Hebrew, Persian or Arabic what little information I can find seems to indicate that Dha’i-fah is mainly used as an accusation against women who enjoy pleasure for its own sake.



, , , , , , , , ,

You will drip with pain. Seduction will itch

in you; an itch that leads to shadowlands.


The dark is the lure. I know what will bewitch

you and why your inner sinner demands


control. I don’t know, though, why you’d submit.

Married. Pious. At peace, you say. Those old


dreams, back when you were a slave to your clit,

must be gone. They’re not for me. You’ve controlled


what still runs riot in me; which is why

I don’t share each gasp, each cum-soaked finger,


each of my wet dreams about you. Divine

lust is dark, like faith. Once I would defy


the world to make you drip. You’re no longer

itch. You no longer call me, “rude boy, mine.”



, , , , , , , , , ,

“I too Analyze,” the spambot confessed,

with Safe and Sexy cam models!” “Big Dick


Trickle.” “Dajuana Cox.” “Mother Knows Breast.”

So much for my Shakespeare essay. Type, “Schlick,”


in by mistake and whole new worlds open

up. It makes research a tad hard, bastards.


Still, I’m sure friend Spambot had lots of fun

crafting wretched sex puns from all my words.


Kinda respect such asinine zeal

to the Absurd. Genet would’ve been proud.


Flarf. Faux Joejobs. Spoems. Ass-‘n-9. None

of it sparks joy … like Dick Trickle. Surreal


but not clever. Cold but not kinky. Loud

but not sublime. Zealot but not shaman.



Jean Genet is one of my favorite petty criminals and playwrights. Champion of Theatre of the Absurd he wrote The Thief’s Journal and Our Lady of the Flowers (where Divine, of Pink Flamingos fame, got her name). The idea of this poem came from Steven Frank’s Spamusement! which took subject lines from spam emails and turned them into single-panel gags. Flarf, Joejobs and Spoems do the same thing but, as I’ve often found, without the humor and self-awareness that makes Frank’s work a joy to read.



, , , , , , , , ,

Around the time when earthly pinks and pearl

had been drained from the sky and the crows rose


in their trees to caw gray into the world

I stirred in nightmare, in sodden nightclothes,


in that sick sweat I get when pneumonia

curls cute in my lungs. I type in a fog


while in bed, one fingered, the nostalgia

of lust both heavy and out of reach. “Flog


a dead horse,” you text back. “Lust is all that

you write about.” Perhaps. These new gray days


of crow caws and ice match my libido.

Who do I turn to? Even my tomcat


retreats. Once I called lust prayer and could praise

pleasure. Now it’s less grace and more deathblow.



, , , , , , , , , ,

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy

wrung from her violin in the café.


Later she said: “Oui. You’re ah ‘ice fuck toy.

I weehl steahl you.” Soon she turned to risque


tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle;

four strings hinting at uncanny glamour.


Oui. Zat despair een ‘is eyes, unable

to speak because, you know, lairynx can’cair,


as I slipped eet from ‘is ‘ands.” The dying,

she said, were, “ah ‘oot,” to fuck with. “Love eet


with zair, ‘but mon Dieu loves me’, attitudes.

Pourquoi?” Hers was a fugue seducing


glamour and the rest just,“’ippy bullsheet.”

Hints of crassest sex from refined études.



Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was an Italian violin virtuoso and believed by many to have sold his soul to the Devil for a legendary red violin. I go back and forth as to whether regional accents help a poem or hinder other people from understanding it. The truth is that I have a lot of fun figuring out various accents but there’s no point in writing something no one else can read. Here’s the translation if any of my fake Parisian words confuse:

Climax, crescendo and the Devil’s joy wrung from her violin in the cafe. Later she said: “Yes. You’re a nice fuck toy. I will steal you.” Soon she turned to risque tunes coaxed from Paganini’s cursed fiddle; four strings hinting at uncanny glamour. “Yes. That despair in his eyes, unable to speak because, you know, larynx cancer, as I slipped it from his hands.” The dying, she said, were, “a hoot,” to fuck with. “Love it with their, ‘but my God loves me’, attitudes. But why?” Hers was a fugue seducing glamour and the rest just,“hippy bullshit.” Hints of crassest sex from refined études.



, , , , , , , , ,

Being Lilith’s child the young priest, pervert,

called you Vava, as in the ancient word,


Vavashot: Lust. Lilith, though, was desert

born and fell in love with the sea’s mothered


magic, naming you Tsovinar: She Strides

Upon Waves. Leave that sucka’ with his psalms


and scant faith, cousin. We’ve both heard the tide’s

long call. We’ve both felt that pull. Nothing calms


me the way She and tempests do. We’ve shed

all our cotton constraints at the shoreline.


Man-made gods have no sway out here. We’ve tread

upon billows and called the brine, “all mine.”


Leave dry land to priests who think that they know

something. They mistake lust for undertow.



In the pre-Christian Armenian pantheon, Tsovinar (Ծովինար) is the goddess of water and forces the rain to fall with her rage. Lilith (Լիլիթ) gets associated with whatever fears and phobias men have about sex at the time; thus she is described as being everything from night-haunt succubus to feminist bisexual to free-spirit divorcee. This, of course, says nothing about Lilith herself, who came from the deserts of what is now modern day Syria to the shores of the Black Sea. In one ancient translation it says, “Լիլիթը հայտնաբերեց ծովը/ Lilith discovered the sea.” It says nothing of her sexual appetites, her loathing of Abrahamic religions or even her being the, “Mother of the Unholy Folk … a Mixed Multitude,” that she’s suppose to have given birth to up in the mountains. All that is racist and sexist modern fantasy. The only thing I feel comfortable in repeating is, “Լիլիթը հայտնաբերեց ծովը/ Lilith discovered the sea.”



, , , , , , ,

Because rural roads have no lights. Because

rainstorms meant no one would follow. You parked


the car, turned toward me; as if menopause

ever cooled passion. I’d yet to be marked


with toff, hormones, my hex’d sex. Sleepovers

with your son’s chums left me all pearl-handled,


revolveress. Barking irons. Splatters

on your grip, your neck, your grin. Rains drizzled


on the bonnet while within you wiped from

your palm maelstrom. I said O and eased out


into ancient dark no one could follow.

You said, “Hmm?” Mishap: once I called you mom.


You laughed. Your gravestone calls you a devout

mother. Good. There’s no rain these days, just snow.



Victorian slang has so many quaint concepts that never get the love that they deserve in this modern age. For example, a revolveress is a woman who, “uses a pistol with a great degree of surety.” (from, Passing English of the Victorian era, a dictionary of heterodox slang, 1885)



, , , , , , , , , ,

Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s

verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each


night and roam. The same infected city’s

haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach


into that dark, cannot dispel horrors

that have only ire toward our neon-fused


age and benign witcheries. The breakers

mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused


my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.

There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us


command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed

on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge


the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris

and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.



, , , , , , , ,

It’s not like we’re puppet and puppeteer;

I’m balls deep in yet you grimly retain


control. The sheath of your ass. The severe

gape left behind in your behind like pain


each time I nearly pull out. Each time you

grip the sheets so that your daughter, drawn by


your cries, crouches in the grove of bamboo

to watch the living play. We could still ply


her with love, let her sleep between us, but

you can’t see ghosts. Your world is her gravestone


and grim resolve; rough sex won’t return her,

or burn this pain out of you, meat puppet.


There’s no strings for that. When you cum you moan

out something like, “daughter, daughter, daughter.”



, , , , , , , ,

Far-off wave, depraved. Nali leans over

the edge of the dugout, shakes her rattle.


She calls: “Big Sister let my Small Sister

come to me.” She does: out from the coral


shadows a shadow rising, a shadow

vast, vast as the tide’s rip, twisting current,


rising into song. I was there. I know

you don’t think women can do this. Pregnant


ghosts will scorn you for that. They love Nali,

though. I rowed. She sang and Femme de requin


came to have her snout rubbed, to feast on prayer.

Sisters swam here until men trawled this sea


down to its ghosts. The price of a shark fin

is when you call and only ghosts answer.



Femme de requin is French for shark woman. The inspiration of this poem came from watching Dennis O’Rourke’s 1982 documentary, The Sharkcallers of Kontu.