i crave. i crave. i crave. something.

31 Monday Jan 2011

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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

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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

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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

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“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

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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

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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.”

god cum

13 Wednesday Oct 2010

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It is mid-October and the camera
is on and everyone is drunk and bi
(at least tonight) Someone playing Hooka
Mama on the boom box. We hear you sigh
as your girlfriend’s strap-on fills up your cunt
and I slide into your ass. One of us
remains silent, one gives a surprised grunt
and then cries. A storm brewing. This kindness
among strangers. Amateur porn. We’ve all
been there. Soon you are whimpering at each
double stroke. Crying. It sounds like grace. Call
to prayer. I love this worship, it can teach
us so much. You, you, me. Divine threesome.
Saying: cum in me, cum in me, god, cum!

belladonna recalls

27 Friday Aug 2010

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OOBATZ. Pronounced oo-‘botz.
It means ‘crazy’ or ‘you’re crazy’
in Italian slang.

This was merely one more new delight 
for my horse-dick brother -- dripping honeyed
cum. He slowly pushed steel into my tight 
asshole until the whole shaft was buried 
to his balls. Then Dante began shaking 
back and forth, moving his cock in my ass. 
I felt filled, throbbing, my asshole gaping
as I squeezed him. Grabbing my hourglass 
hips he jack-hammered, oobatz. He and I 
then came: me for the third time and his first.
Cum and cry. That's all I did. Cum and cry
with his cock until I thought I would burst. 
That's how I became a Strap-on Sister.
Rudest of Playthings. An Ass Girl Lover.

dreams for a lesser delta

27 Friday Aug 2010

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And the microphone skips and someone keeps
bumping the turntables. These are fables
for a lesser delta and our Blues weeps
mud. Someone keeps bumping the turntables.
Soon we boy toys will be gone and then they’ll
notice you or me missing. Like scratchy
scratchy DJs or the tarted-up male
of the species. We are far too pretty
not to be worth the worry. There are clues
left in your open mouth, studs. It’s fitting
we should be swallowed. Fitting that our dreams
for a delta bleeds through, in our mouth Blues
bleeds mud and someone – bastard – keeps bumping
the turntables while the microphone screams.

eros in chains

27 Friday Aug 2010

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Pity poor Eros, cock hard, once again.
Our porn saints strut with big asses. Every
circle jerk strips bare all our needs. Lust, then,
is all bankrupt. There’s a price, a very
large price, elsewhere, where the deep erotic
lives. Our Trinity: Stud, Virgin and Queer.
Santiago’s saints strut with bunda. Thick
ass boys are worshiped down here. There’s no fear
of death. That makes it a blessing. Give up
your pound of flesh, boy. The sacred always
demands flesh. Then you can talk of worship,
how you’ve never betrayed Eros’ gaze
or name. All this wit and flame, cum and spit.
How you, who’ve tasted love, honored it.