what escapes

01 Sunday Jul 2018

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Say that submissiveness is a wavelength

simply seeking proper context. You wet

 

yourself, you say, because your secret strength

comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets

 

arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished

juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,

 

you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”

you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes

 

between us is slick. We burble. We rave.

We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s

 

prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,

they say, you will come again. That this wave

 

in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers

to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.

NOTE:

My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.

prove

28 Thursday Jun 2018

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It’s not breaking off the tooth, it’s the living

with the exposed root. You are gone. You are

 

gone. I know that the rain is still falling,

that the earth is still sublime, that the star

 

I named you for is still out there, somewhere.

It’s this morbid time, time on my hands, time

 

to think that I can drink away despair,

fuck away all this pain. Time for sublime

 

errors in judgment. Pain will be the death

of me but what does pain prove? They still move:

 

the rain, the earth, the stars, all that must part

must part. I held you. You took your last breath.

 

You are gone. Let this long sober pain prove

that I love you, little blessing, dear heart —

little bliss

24 Sunday Jun 2018

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Death then? Love now. Love what teaches. Despair

combined with sex and poor impulse control

 

teaches. During a game of Truth or Dare

I learned that the emotional black-hole

 

called my psyche isn’t good at keeping

friends. The Dare: show me base pleasures. Others

 

tsk’d-tsk’d. Look where it got them. Still, snogging

takes groin-stirring skill and I know what stirs

 

your groin, or so I thought. I got confused

and then frightened when you began to cry.

 

That was neither long death or little bliss,

only shame. When friends say that they felt used

 

that’s on you. Learn from this, fool. Don’t reply

with a sigh that a kiss is just a kiss —

bereft

22 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in Disaster –- Pain –- Sorrow, Poetry, sonnet

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But just then temperance whispers: you are dull

sober. You’re still a shit and self-possessed —

 

the way devils possess the infidel,

the way cancer still lurks in your left breast

 

— possessed and achingly lonely. Restraint

didn’t change that. All mild calm has brought you

 

is new panic, all your old fears, that quaint

dread of future fuck-ups to come. You knew

 

that there’d be hell to pay but why is hell

so worn? forlorn? The last horned god has left

 

the woods, the last great shark fished from the sea.

This is your inheritance. You shall tell

 

of your riches — flat, gray, cut off, bereft

— and all that happens after ecstasy.

Quote

quote unquote

21 Thursday Jun 2018

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But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! …. I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

from, “Frankenstein; or the Modern Prometheus,” by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

lapse

18 Monday Jun 2018

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Friends don’t fuck, your father claimed. True, perhaps,

though I don’t know what else to call these acts

 

of ours, waiting for your school bus. Relapse?

Bare backsliding? Snu-snu? I’d say that facts

 

argue that friends do, often, savagely.

I might be a corrupting influence …

 

though your fascination with sodomy

started long before, you claim. The fragrance

 

of sweat, cum and new knowledge fills the air,

your sheets all splotched. Once I swore that I’d end

 

it with you … the way that all addicts do.

Now I lapse, gaily. Now I just don’t care

 

what your father thinks. True, you are my friend

as well as why I love all that’s taboo.