esta manhã
sonhei sua corpo
inteiro – acordei
com teu molhado
almíscar
na minha
língua
molhado almíscar
13 Wednesday Apr 2011
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
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seu mistério
13 Wednesday Apr 2011
Eu não sei. Você vento verde?
Você ramos verdes? Você
o coruja no bosque? Você
o céu? O teu umbigo
é uma taça arredondada,
que nunca está desprovida
de vinho. Meu amor,
minhas delícias. Lembre-se:
Deusa é um mistério.
agridoce
13 Wednesday Apr 2011
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Típico de mim, que diferença faz?
Romã-do-amor, abrir sementes
com a minha língua, explorar
seus cheiros e sabores.
Minha língua lambe memória.
* * *
Fumaça demora entre seus dedos,
também, com um beijo que foi…
absolutamente agridoce.
* * *
Você disse, “por favor,
eu quero o seu mais violentos
da língua.” Mas eu sou apenas
um fantasma.
Lembra-se?
In English:
Typical me, what difference does it make? Pomegranate-of-love, seeds open with my tongue, exploring your aromas and flavors. My tongue licks this memory. Smoke lingers between your fingers, too, with a kiss that was … absolutely bittersweet. You said, “Please, I want your violent tongue. “ But I’m just a ghost. Remember?
molhado
08 Friday Apr 2011
Posted in Erotic, photograph, Poetry, Translation
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Depois dessa paixão
que embebeu-me — dessa
omnipotente osso — dessa
pálido carne devorou — depois
de te amar tão loucamente,
como posso explicar?
Eu estou indo relax.
Lá no fundo nos todos
ainda nos sentimos molhados.
In English:
After this passion that has soaked me – this almighty bone – this pale flesh devoured – after loving you so crazy, how can I explain? I’m going to relax. Deep down we all still feel wet.
i crave. i crave. i crave. something.
31 Monday Jan 2011
I crave. I crave. I crave. Something. Something
else. Not this. It comes unasked for. Unsought.
Not all sex is sordid or degrading,
which is a shame. Someone, somewhere, is not
doing it right. Tonight the city sings
God Save the Queen’s Cunt. Let me go solo.
That is good, too. Tonight all these longings
feel brand new. Did you ever writhe and glow
and squirt? I plan to. Crave my mouth, my voice,
my hair. Search for the liquid sound of my
steps all day. I will wait for you. The choice
is yours. Tonight no one will hear this cry,
which I make for you. All old joys and new
pleasures, all that I know, this is for you.
your last orgasm [1]
27 Thursday Jan 2011
Of all the kinds of hells, I am the Hell
of Ache and Thrill. The raw material
Eros heaps on the bed. Watch the moon swell,
the tides slap up against you. The cruel
way the Earth does not like you. She sent me
to you. The curse at the end of the prayer.
Only if it’s rough. I am all fury.
There is torture and then there is torture.
The moon knows, the tides know, the Earth knows. You,
it seems, do not. Because you always need
more and I am the pain that you welcome.
I have never understood the taboo
of hurt or why it turns you on. But bleed
you I will, down to your last orgasm.
kinky god-boy
23 Sunday Jan 2011
Passion has a price. A thing of beauty
is a toy forever. Come over here,
I want to play with you. In the ivy
wall a kinky god-boy hides. He appears
only to the devout and the sex starved
sacred. Passion does not claim possession
rather it gives us our freedom. I’ve carved
all that sets me free on my arm: shaman
drug, kick-boot sex, tsunami orgasm.
Even when you are with me the god-boy
watches you watching me: our queer threesome.
Lover, a thing of beauty is a toy.
We love toys like we love sin and reefers,
vodka and coke, cum and sticky fingers.
kafka and rough sex and faith
21 Friday Jan 2011
Tags
“Man, that’s what I call a New York joint … you
can pick your teeth with a New York joint.”
— Jim Morrison
I start my mornings with vodka, a New
York joint and plenty of eggs. It’s the yolks
I love, like cum on the pillow, mildew
in the bath: a little proof that invokes
ghosts of a good time. Thus the day begins.
Some days all we got is Kafka and rough
sex and faith. Of the Seven Deadly Sins
I have tried the sweet five and that’s enough.
I’m too wired for Sloth. Anger only half
interests me. But Lust and Pride? Just believe
me, dear, that’s the stuff dreams are made out of.
I’ve blown Baudelaire, made Sylvia Plath
cum. I love fucking ghosts, lovers who leave
mist cum-stains: all ectoplasm and mauve.
the havoc of dragonflies
25 Monday Oct 2010
Tags
chaos, divine, dragonflies, sin, sonnet
I want to steal your soul because, they claim,
the soul is said to be held in one’s breath.
Come and whisper in my mouth. Breathe your name
inside me and I will keep it safe. Death
has no meaning when I lap it up. Lips
to lips. The way I lap every drop up.
Raw. Half-baked. Tiny tongue fucks. Tongue that slips
inside your prayer song. This ancient worship
we all do. Yes. You. Me. Divine. When love
is not divine it is not love. It spins
us. I’m dizzy. I want you but above
all else I want your soul. In me. Our sins
of the flesh. Our kissing flesh never lies.
Kissing is the havoc of dragonflies.
control and menthols and bad acid
23 Saturday Oct 2010
Ben Wa Balls, also known as Geisha Balls
are small, metal balls, usually hollow,
used for sexual stimulation — note
Control: making you keep your panties on.
When you go out leave those Ben Wah Balls deep
inside you. Wear them at work. Let nylon
be the only thing to keep them in, keep
them from being heard as you walk. Jogging.
We will go jogging until your eyes glaze
over. I’ll be right behind you, watching
as you tremble with each step. You always
rode bikes and ponies to get off. These balls,
each with a small vibrating metal screw,
are like that. Love is control and Menthols
and bad acid. Love is making you do
things you never would. When I ask, “Lover,
did you cum at work?” You whisper, “yes, sir.”
memories of my ghost sista 