new year

31 Monday Dec 2018

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Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you

were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue

dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest

burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed

stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,

burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage

in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.

gore

30 Sunday Dec 2018

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Bust of palm spent. Thrust against your back, bent
in your ass. Slap-on jeans drawn down. Bourgeois

passions. Old tongue. In Hayeren I meant:
Vo’chinch. I meant: Nothing. Comme ci. Comme ca.

Maybe good. Maybe bad. So so. Drained. Gushed.
That pause. I could stop. We could stop. Say: slow.

O ho. Or: more. Or say: gore left me flushed.
Gore left you hushed, waiting for the deathblow

from a fuck to give off more than obscene
relief. Is it enough? you ask. My chill.

Your heat. Perhaps. Enough to make us cum
in fire, ash. Don’t begrudge carnage between

us. Don’t cuss hard love. It’s still love: the thrill
of your dizzy tizzy, your ill tantrum.

][][

NOTE:
Hayeren is the term that Armenians use for their own language and, “Vo’chinch,” is an expression that literally means, “nothing,” but is used in the same way that the French use, “comme ci comme ca” — neither good nor bad, it just is.

4-sight

28 Friday Dec 2018

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There was no ark, no broken seal. The dead
clock this world but not like how I was taught.

“Oi git overstrung, freaked oyt, too,” I zed.
“Oi’m fired up. Oi’m fucked up. Oi’m overwrought.

But Oi’m perfect, otherwise.” Other … wise.
4-sight. Savoir faire. It’s there: that finite

tense that we both sensed. That manic demise
that no laws, lit or holy writ can right.

We don’t know and the dead don’t claim the truth.
The dead just are — absurd as negative

numbers, absurd as love. Call their wisdom
the same when my knees bend, cheeks bulge, uncouth

jaw pops with your climax, with what you give;
no arks, no laws, no writ. Just soul. Just cum.

mercy

27 Thursday Dec 2018

Posted by in Armenia, Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

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Christmas Eve’s “No First Drink” Recovery
Meeting. The reek of Pall Mall in the air.

Don’t talk now. Don’t stand out. Not of Gyumri.
Not of dead orphans. Not of the nightmare

that haunts you from Nagorno-Karabakh.
Everyone here carries their own horrors.

Right now just listen, just be present. Black
humor, Lilith’s mercy, depraved lovers

kept you, if not lucid, at least sober …
but not tonight. You woke. You sit and grieve,

nod and listen. You love these survivors.
You love everyone but yourself. No prayer

will heal what you conceal under your sleeve,
under your burn scar, your broken knuckle.

defleeced

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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In the bathroom you lather her snatch-thatch
until the hair hangs, soaked in suds. Mirror

ready. Razor in hand you kiss the scratch
and bruise you’d left. You play rough, big sister.

You break toys and crow when you taste her ass
on my cock face flushed while gagging me right

down your throat. You called her up after class,
told her that she would be spending the night

in your dorm-room. Now amuse me, you tease.
Show her what happens to bratty Littles

who go all catawampus. Shave her smooth.
With her girl-curls sluiced to the floor you squeeze

defleeced flesh letting drawn-out cum-tendrils
tie you to the clit that you suck and soothe.

ghastly

26 Wednesday Dec 2018

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After your mom goes to bed you slip out
of the trailer so that we can nuzzle

and pet in the red dirt. Lower-lip pout —
O-lip moan. Kisses and pheromones. Dull

ache of cock pressed against the camel toe
in your cotton. Creosote and sage. Kiss

with my tongue in your mouth. Rust moon’s glow.
“Middle school,” you hiss, “was never like this.”

All that stands between us is a condom
and the cloth of your Pinkie Pie knickers;

a left-over from your ghastly, “lost year.”
Not like this. Not now. Pain gives us freedom.

Not like that. This. Kiss me more. The sky blurs
as we bleed, crossing through this queer frontier.

demivierge

24 Monday Dec 2018

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Lady Frigg: there’s no shame when the gods touch
us. Hand on a mutton dagger. Fingers

in a velveteen mine. What they call a Dutch
Jacking, Fifty-nine, Mutual Pleasures

is what we do, every day, after school.
Fertile demivierge: all that’s in repose,

ready to be woke, is in us. Flesh fuel.
Dungarees around your knees. Your curled toes

quiver as I work in a third finger —
stroking what lies within. Like a heart-stone

or a seed-fruit our gifts are limitless
here in your bedroom before your mother

gets home. Tiny deaths spring up. Endless moan
as the gods fill us, vast and numberless.

Note:
DEMIVIERGE: A French term meaning, “an adolescent who, though still technically a virgin, has engage in other sexual activities including mutual-masturbation, oral sex and heavy petting.” (from, sex-lexis, an on-line erotic dictionary)

olisbos

23 Sunday Dec 2018

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Would I might rouse the jelly-boy in you
which throbbed, quaked, pulsated in your knickers

last night. A dill-doll. A purple cork-screw
with all the battery-power of mother’s

little helper. Greeks called it, “olisbos” —
born from where the ghost of Sappho’s cosmic

songs caused storms, carved the island of Lesbos.
I like it best when we’re out in public;

you slip it out and head to the restroom,
gone for ages. Once I heard your fuck-please

keening groan mixed along with Cunt-Bugger’s
(pet name) dreary drone. Last night cum, froth, spume

glazed its sides. This night with its batteries
dead you feel a touch too raw for pleasure.

scurrilous

20 Thursday Dec 2018

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It was odd: taking you to high school prom
though I was in college. That dress: ruffles

galore. You had licked cum from off my palm
moments before but in one of the lulls

on the dance floor while Wham!’s Careless Whisper
dropped I felt scandalous. Rites of Passage,

indeed: with acid from an eye-dropper,
with wine, with pot. Dried cum caked your cleavage

and ass, your fleecy cunt under your dress.
If I must praise anything I shall praise

us: a shy wanton and a sex-starved nerd
and our last night. Neither of us could guess

how soon we’d part: I’d start my Vegas-phase
making porn and you enrolled in Harvard.