fad and fumble

15 Saturday May 2010

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The waist of black linen longstockings pulled
thigh high over plump ribs clutching like ash,
girly cigarette, her cheeks, all ash-wooled
agleam, behind her chin and her length slash
kinky thatch. Hash and kisses with the big
bighty heels of clunky-clunky wooden
klompen. All her cogwheels, flicking in wig.
Splaying her rainbow under silk shaven
thatch. Lean in for a close look. “I’m the stuff
that blurs lines,” mouths latched, “all fad and fumble.”
Her wide grin peeked from between thighs. A puff,
a drag, you arrive in her mouth: sweet, dull.
Her tongue crazy bong-water, S-bending
knees, sucking hash ash, getting everything.

all buckram

29 Thursday Apr 2010

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All harsh love. Rough cat-o’nine-tails with thorns.
Your shaved prickly thicket between rage,
between cigar burns, between cuckold horns.
Between here you have sampled my teenage
tongue and ass, hawthorn and briar. I am
brushwood gone mad. What flower, what sea stone,
what smoke knows this pain? I am all buckram,
bull god, the gnarled oak, the hot wind, the groan
of its branches. The frightful night shuddered
and the dawn filled the wine with misspent glass.
Let the sun find her place in the sky, scar
its skin while your love besieged me, butchered
me, cut me, ripped my heart, my tongue, my ass
with thorns and kisses and your damn cigar.

from our clothes, our beds

29 Thursday Apr 2010

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Love does not arrive in a sweat-fuck. Love
arrives in empty beds, all passion’s boast
and self-praise scares it. Lemon and olive
trees bloom, spring has arrived in Gyumri, ghost
city of my soul. Love, we are apart:
parted from our clothes, our beds are empty.
You sit naked by the window. I start
writing lines, stop. My love and the city
I love are far away. We are older
now, no less bolder. You at the peephole
watching me bathe. Love was there and passion
was our birth-right. Never forget, lover,
all our sweat-fucks: that you swallowed me whole,
and I ruptured, an earth-god’s carnation.

love spilling

29 Thursday Apr 2010

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note: in Hinduism Durga is a form of the supreme goddess
Devi. as an embodiment of female power Durga appears
as fearless, never losing her sense of humor, even during
raging battles of epic proportion.
Lush, lush wild woman: a name, a hot stone,
a god-thing pulled from the earth. Clits and tits,
lemon’s bright light, the rain of a cyclone.
You have a name. The myth of girl bandits,
the heft of spears, the blood under your nails.
Even Durga enjoyed a good hard fuck
now and then. Girly males, manly females,
genderless gods, the mad and the moonstuck,
all this love spilling from my burnt-out heart.
Be my door to a dark, concealed tunnel.
Lead me to the scent of the world, the art
of rage and fear. My brutal sexual
beastie. No guilt. No excuses. No shame.
Just: “say my name, cock sucker, say my name!”

shaman’s trip

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

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Wide shine coming from you standing open
in the window. Now, a damn breaking, rich
reeking with the end of winter, molten
weight of loam dripping. The smell of spinach,
hot shaved copper, all finger lickin’ good.
Pull the curtains. A damn. A curse. The door
behind you shuts. This lust around us. Should
pharaohs, ancient fuckers, need one more whore
like me, then I’ll go. I’ll do anything
for you. This affair, these lamentations,
libations, our bodies, earth full fucking.
Leave your body, come in me, a shaman’s
trip, sweet burnt offerings. I’m your Holy-
Holy with you screaming “god, cum in me!”

gertrude the cougar

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

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There is no love in this life for older
women. The most you can be is Gertrude,
Hamlet’s mother. But what sort of pleasure
can you find with a melancholy prude
for a son who wants you all to himself?
While Hamlet and Claudius fought Gertrude’s
vibrator buzzed, making her the first MILF,
the first Cougar, first to catch a young dude’s
eye. And why not? Life is short and we all
drink the poison in Act 5. A good fuck
is the least we can do. The last cure-all
until the undiscovered country. Suck
you wet, Gertrude, you who’ve been another
mother to me; my friend, muse and lover.

in praise of older women

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Lordy, I’m getting up in years but mama

ain’t too old to shift her gears” — Ida Cox.

It’s sort of a fetish with me. Your ass
in fishnets; I’ve always had a thing for
older women in fishnets, their hourglass
lips, ball-breaking boots. Out on the dreamfloor
of our bedroom someone stands up. Someone
begins calling me home. Home is hardcore,
ancient and changing. I love your shaven
lips and your whiskey hip voice. I love your
smile while you’re gagging me down, while bending
down in that skirt. You’re somebody’s mother.
Tonguing your two cheeks apart, those two thigh
pillows. That letter from mama, calling:
come home child, before I die, the letter
from her, I die, I – come before I die.

dull and bestial

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Tonight I want you dull and bestial;
honey mammals on all fours. do not think
while I reach around you for a nipple
or grab your hips to lean forward and drink
in your flesh scent, kiss the back of your skull.
grovel on your hands and knees while I press
in slow. yes, the wicked and the sacral
all know these muddy blues, too. hiss out, “yes,
baby, yes.” hiss out nasty, delightful
things. this ghost broth is what rude boys, sassy
girls all speak about. mad delirium.
let us go beyond words. take our push-pull,
push-pull to a sweat fuck that cannot be
captured, written down, put in a poem.

with pollen, with sap

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Orchid. I shall call you Orchid. Call me
your fat bumble bee and I will suck dry
your wet parted lips. Call me your oak tree.
Let your hungry mistletoe feed on my
wild sap. Let it dribble across your thigh,
down your chin, all over. The French call this
Soixante Neuf; numbers and all they imply.
You were never good at math; but to kiss
and suck and swallow? Even an orchid
knows to open up for pollen. Even
an oak will bend in the wind. Let us lay
side by side. Let us drink from pure liquid
delight. Let us spend all day, with pollen
and with sap, at what others call foreplay.

grind

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

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Ghost of Yu Luo Sha shakes her mane of hair,
dandruff everywhere, sits by the bedside
and grinds. We think the dead are unaware
of their genitals, but this is The Bride
with White Hair – at night she returns, touches
former lovers, cat-like, raises one leg,
lowers her hips onto upturned faces.
“Tongue out, love,” she whispers. Look, do not beg
that the soul is dull; as if ghosts don’t seize
every chance to watch you undress at night
or the dead, now pregnancies, S.T.D.s
are not a threat, do not use their birthright
for bliss. Yu Luo Sha, hair loosed, knees up, dress
ripped off, grinds. This is what the dead possess.