This is my version of perversion/ This is my verse in perverse.
quote unquote
16 Sunday Dec 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on quote unquote
tad
16 Sunday Dec 2018
Tags
bachelor girl, old maid, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spinster, strap-on sister, tad, tremors in your knickers
Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,
etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,
Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague
reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,
splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.
All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear
and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.
quote unquote
15 Saturday Dec 2018
Posted in quote unquote
≈ Comments Off on quote unquote
Tags
We cannot see the universe. We are in the darkness of a trench, a deep cut, dark water heavier than earth, presences lit by our own blood, little biolumes, heroic and pathetic Promethei too afraid or weak to steal fire but able still to love. Gods are among us and they care nothing and are nothing like us. This is how we are brave: we worship them anyway.
China Miéville, Kraken
funk
15 Saturday Dec 2018
Tags
erotic poetry, fear not fellatio will be coming next, female presenting nipples, freedom, funk, get woke, punk, sonnet, this flesh is both a cage and freedom
The air is getting thick and you won’t come
here. Ah, you cum but not here. You female
presenting nipples you. One day that dumb
joke will be a headscratcher. With fox-tail
anal beads, with zest and tongue baths, the thatch
of my snatch shaved to rubble. Your people
are not my people. They still farm. They still scratch
the earth and make it bloom. Mine are brutal
the way that I’m brutal. The way I’ve sunk
my hands in your hair, guided myself down
your throat, heard you moan and then felt you choke
on air thick as sin. No more hardcore punk
funk, you said. Freedom, I said, is to drown
in cum is the first step in getting woke.
faith
14 Friday Dec 2018
Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon
calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon
in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,
foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow
fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone
somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers
will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.
askew
13 Thursday Dec 2018
Tags
askew, healing from abuse, love shack, poem, Poetry, sex as therapy, sonnet
We pulled off the road to a shack with no
glitter on the porch, just the rancid ghost
of your father, a lost hungry Ego,
damaged Id. Fingernail scratches that boast
the things you do scare other kids. Scared stiff
but not scared straight. Love is always askew
in this curved earth, bent sky, the lush whiff
of kink under our nails. I feel for you
as I unzip your fly, ease short-shorts off
wide hips, kissing each dark stretch-mark. I feel
you, go down on you, pressed against the wall
of your childhood home. Your dead dad still scoffs
at your needs. What we do now is love: heal
all his ill work, free the ghosts in your skull.
all-wants
13 Thursday Dec 2018
There was just one shop in all Yerevan
that sold thongs so you took your mom. She knew
that you’d come over, sit on the divan,
show off your steal. Fabric almost see-through,
crusted and curled from spliffs and sex that wrecks
each day after school. The only English
you knew were the words to Khia’s, “My Neck,
My Back,” which were enough. You said you wished
you had friends who would play this rough. Neighbors
gossiped: they heard your glee, biting the sheets,
shaking like fever. Once that was enough.
Once you were all-wants and I all-pleasures,
breaking free from a world that still mistreats
lovers, shames daughters, calls our love mischief.
pot, porn and boo
12 Wednesday Dec 2018
Three girls shooting hoop with unbound laughter
the time boys weren’t around. One joked about
missed shots. One twirled the ball on her finger.
One talked about art and love and burn-out.
When I consider how my art was spent
it would never be like you and your boo,
your quick-trice slam-dunks, never a moment
all mine though I was the one you went to
when boys return, games end, your friends depart.
Even with the windows shut, pot and porn
cranked to 10, we could still hear your boyfriend
bragging down on the court. That was my art.
Not a lover, but in a world of scorn
the one who loved you, almost to the end.
curs
12 Wednesday Dec 2018
Tags
blisters in your nightmare, blow job, buck goat, curs, erotic poetry, fellatio, joy in being crudely used, sonnet
Foul and depraved. Some might say, bestial.
A hint of skull-duggery. A slap dash
of skull-fuckery. That nightmare: jackal-
headed ghast with a touch of cock, a splash
of cum, one who makes your nipples pucker
pushing six– ten– twelve inches down your throat.
Haven’t thought of that fiend with a swagger
in years. Yesterday your sister’s buck-goat
eyed you with lust. Today it was the curs
next door. Awake or asleep you’re crudely
used. Some say that we do this on purpose,
so that naughty thoughts might make us monsters.
Grace comes when we admit that we’re horny.
Denying that is what’s monstrous.
choke cherries
11 Tuesday Dec 2018
Tags
all sex poems are tragic, choke cherries, erotic poetry, poem, sonnet, temper tantrum, wasp wing
Deluge of wasps swarm. Their storm sound is huge.
When I feel hot, I flip a lid. It stops.
Complicit in your own misuse I rouge
your twinge, cum-cake your ache. I have the top’s
need for chaos in love. Though wasps flock
when touched I derange, let love bludgeon
me to confess: like witches and warlocks
my art comes from dark flame. In a garden
always in decay, where bile-born insects
swarm, go find choke-cherries. In the temper
and the tantrum find what gets you off bent,
flips your Id, fills you with buzz. All infects
are good, all wounds holy. Our vast sound. Slur
as I acquiesce. Slur as you consent.
memories of my ghost sista 