Ne te lave pa. Je reviens./ I’m coming home. Don’t bathe.
Napoleon to Josephine
quote unquote
12 Tuesday Jun 2018
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sloshed
12 Tuesday Jun 2018
Tags
divine orgasms, entering the house of the orgasm, erotica, little savage, poem, Poetry, sloshed, sonnet
How do the sober mate? The ones not drunk
on quick kisses. Who don’t drop to their knees
on the first date. Who tuck their luscious junk
away and never learn how to say, “please,
cum-plum, I need more.” More libertine sex
magic and all the proteins found in cum.
More rough gods and nipple clamps. More objects
designed for pleasure. Imagine Sodom
as a lazy date night. The world is ours.
Imagine a kiss that leaves you stoned, sloshed,
flushed. Imagine me knocking on your door.
Debauched acts: what soils the soul in others
is our prayer. Pray savage, come drunk, unwashed.
Tell me that you want this … that you need more.
vulgarity
02 Saturday Jun 2018
Tags
Beltane, erotic poetry, praise this sleaze, rump, rush and gush, slick with sweat, sodomy, sonnet, vulgarity
— on Beltane (May 1st)
Summer heat in the forest. Green rage, haze.
Too hot. Too sluggish. The wind-bells don’t stir.
The birds don’t stir. Too sultry for dull praise
and dull ritual — Only the lover
and the witch stir; all who pray erect, wet
to touch, open to air — Only lovers
whose skin sheens, whose kisses come slick with sweat,
who cum as gushings, downpours, flood waters.
A touch of sodomy between the trees.
A touch of vulgarity; satyrs blush
when they see us together. Praise this sleaze
and all that it has wrought. Praise rush and gush,
the tongue in your mouth, the flesh of your rump
in this haze; all that is muscled, round, plump.
thrimilce
29 Tuesday May 2018
Tags
blowjob, burly green, erotic poetry, fellatio, Green Fuse, sonnet, thrimilce
In the Season of Slosh, dank and swampy,
in Thrimilce, the Month of Three Milkings,
when all that drips and rains and bleeds in me,
each spurt and geyser, will be offerings.
Nothing is as bewitching; a horned god
in the spring heat, long and lovely and lush.
Green heat: I want to impale you, ramrod
you in sacrifice to the forest. Gush,
as sap gushes, down your garlands. Cock-slap
your blithe face, stretching jaw, your bulging throat.
In juice is joy, they say. In cum wisdom.
Bless the sacred; be it spit, seed or sap.
Bless the damp earth. Bless lovers that devote
themselves daily to wisdom and to cum.
][][
Note: “Thrimilce,” is the Anglo-Saxon term for the month of May, when the animals of the earth are so fertile that the ewes can be milked three times a day.
noontide
28 Monday May 2018
Then I walk in. You are their Mama Bear;
Lyric’s cock hard in your hand, Karma’s cunt
spread wide under your tongue. Boys with longhair,
girls in combat boots; when you are pregnant
and huge like this your sex drive runs amok.
Noontide blunts. Bourbon. Gaping of your ass
as you slowly reach around your stomach
to guide Lyric in. I watch the blue-glass
veins, wide shaft, fatty tip vanish inside.
Who would ask for this when we feel pure want
consume us? When our lethargic passion
stirs? There is hell in not being denied,
in not saying no when you’re their mad aunt,
and these two, your baby sister’s children.
quote unquote
21 Monday May 2018
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What makes an act indecent isn’t what we do, it’s what other people imagine that we do.
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19 Saturday May 2018
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This is what You shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and Labour to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with mothers of families , read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told in school, or church, or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency…
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (via allxfoo)
awry
29 Sunday Apr 2018
Tags
awry, conjoin, erotic poem, grape's whine, plump green, Poetry, sonnet
Would we conjoin? The well-cut and wicked
know how to fuck. But you and I? We’re crass
and ill-shaped — Flesh not meant to run naked
under plump green vines, wind’s wild pampas-grass;
asses not meant to be tapped. We were born
under the signs of phlegm and oddities;
less chic and more shriek. In all of their porn
nothing looks like us. That’s good. Others please,
we tire, swamp-corpse and bloat. Our carnal sin:
sloth. Our lewd god: nuzzling gone awry.
When you tell me, “your body will haunt mine,”
that’s a threat. We’re not grape’s whine: its juice, skin,
madness. We’re what’s left: hot dust, empty sky
twitchy things, the grotesque in the grapevine.
quote unquote
28 Saturday Apr 2018
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The reef upon which all our frail mystic ships are wrecked.
Noel Coward on the subject of ‘Time’, from Blithe Spirit
itchy ghost
21 Saturday Apr 2018
Tags
flick knife, itchy ghost, mar of bloodshed, mark of Mars, moonface, poem, Poetry, sonnet, zipper scars
Praise to the needle and praise to the thread;
how they suture a pucker together.
Picture a moonface, my face, my forehead
slit in two. Beastly flap flopping, glimmer
of bone mixed with blood. A doctor at work:
that jab thrust pull, jab thrust pull on my lip
diced, seams leaving me with a grotesque smirk,
jackal grin. My chin sliced. My finger tip.
My odd hip. Itchy ghost of zipper scars
and flick knives. Small lewd ghost of aortal
blood and wire. You both know the infamy
that is sewn under these clothes; mark of Mars,
mar of bloodshed, held in place with needle
and thread. Y’all put the “scar” into scary.
memories of my ghost sista 