shlick

12 Saturday Aug 2017

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Not like sleaze stopped us; with your loud, “Oh gosh!
Thish ish amashin! I’m ah shloppy mesh!”—

everyone listened to the slish, shlick, slosh
of my fingers pulling out from your flesh;

your long, “huuugh.” One frowned, shocked like a grown-up
at our public displays of affection.

One looked away as I sucked the syrup
of your mess clean. Yes, I am a glutton

for certain things, certain queer alchemies.
Yes, you slouched with legs splayed on the bus seat,

glowing, indifferent to the commuters
stares. Let them call these ancient acts filth, sleaze,

shame. Let them. We are part of the night’s heat
— full of mad, wet prayer and obscene odors.

muddied drop

09 Wednesday Aug 2017

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First came spigoting; twisting inside you
to let the hazed swamp heat out. What was it?

Grinding of hips? A blowtorch? A corkscrew?
Something deep bruised your viscera. Spirit

of cum puddles and sparks, of lewd vapor
and scars. To treat you like fuck meat, sweetly

immature, is an act of faith. Skewer
you raw, on hands and knees, that’s prayer. Knock-knee

and splayed hip; your fingers warped the bed sheets.
What dripped was a muddied drop. We giggled

to be so nasty, goblins damned. Bare-legged
and backside, we, “shudder’d at it,” as Keats

would say. We have craved and beseeched and yowled
for each thrust — blood fueled by gin and acid.

ARS POETICA

30 Sunday Jul 2017

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Others see silvered far-flung loneliness.
Shadowed boom of surf. The waste of breakers

pulling back. The voices that they hear: chaos,
malice, an alien ear. These others

took in the mirror to find the divine.
I look in the long sweep of waves. Rolling

lash of dark water against the hull. Brine
on my lips. Endless gray wet. There’s nothing

for the landsmen obsessed with sin and shame
down here; the men who say that they have known

that their divine is here to mollify
them with what is unknowable. No name.

No shape that you’ll recognize as your own
except in shadows as great fish swim by.

slamecka

29 Saturday Jul 2017

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Beastly. Impaled and crushed against the wall,
palms flat, slap-slapping out count at each stroke

while gin, the feathered serpent and menthol
pierce you to your core. Tonight we’ll invoke

banjee beats with Verde Viento. Green Fuse.
Arse Elektronika — Between the hips

with four fingers dug deep: we’ll let sweat-ooze
and spit-cum drip down. Gods whose fingertips

touch us leave a mark, the rest leave a sore
bruise. I leave the slamecka: the buildup

to when both your thighs give way, your speech slurs,
and the gods and saints are with you, hardcore.

Slathered in my own saliva, heaved up,
I can balance you on my four fingers.

gods and bodily fluids

23 Sunday Jul 2017

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Trepanned: a holed skull. Lulled by the bubble-
blown glass bong that we traded back and forth,

fingers touching. You blew into my skull,
the hole all smoke. Your stoop was 5th and North;

you pressed with your nail deep into my pink.
Everyone laughed making my thigh spasm.

Shamans did this to talk to the gods, link
themselves up to the divine. I’m just numb

from too much faith that even King Tut weed
can’t calm. You waggled your thumb in and out.

My bones hurt — “Then am I/ a happy fly?”
Papa Blake asked, since maggots breed

in here and with my gape I’m a devout
trepanned mystic, one with a cum-soaked thigh.

GNOSIS

21 Friday Jul 2017

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After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.

It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.

Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones

hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones

leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate

wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —

one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.

marimacho

19 Wednesday Jul 2017

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It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.

clutch

17 Monday Jul 2017

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Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.

on your knees

15 Saturday Jul 2017

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When pulled out the plug left a hole that gaped.
It had been twisted — into the deeper

niche of your nether regions — I had taped
down the battery wire to your inner

thigh, set the vibrator to vex and ire
and left you, as you had asked, fidgeting

all day long. Some of us get desire,
some can only give. There are gods, dying,

who get prayed to less. This four-fingered thumb
can plug, but not with the current that ran

through you. I found you, later, on your knees.
Lilith’s blood. “This pain will give me freedom,”

you moaned as I took the plug in one hand
and pulled amid your prayers and pleas.

welt

12 Wednesday Jul 2017

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I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-

Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish

Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.

Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;

mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches

inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow

all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.