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divinos gula

09 Thursday Nov 2017

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babylon-crashing:

Sou o preferido filho de Dionísio, deus da porra e vinho. Por causa de você, minha corpo é duro e molhado. Fique nu no meu quarto. Eu quero um escuro beijo. Sou o fruto da deusa do amor, Afrodita. Engula me, encontrar a tua fome, saciar a tua sede. Entre os dois sexos, sou o corpo de nossos divinos gula.

I’m the favorite son of Dionysus, god of wine and fucking. Because of you, my body is hard and wet. Stand naked in my room. I want a dark kiss. I am the fruit of the goddess of love, Aphrodite. Swallow me, find your hunger, quench your thirst. Between the sexes, I am the body of our divine gluttony.

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quote unquote

07 Tuesday Nov 2017

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Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white.
‘Somebody did that to you?’ whispered Ford.
‘Yeah.’
‘But have you any idea who? Or why?’
‘Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.’
‘You know? How do you know?’
‘Because they left  their  initials  burnt  into  the  cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.’
Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.
‘Initials? Burnt into your brain?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, what were they, for God’s sake?’
Zaphod looked at him in silence  again  for  a  moment.  Then  he looked away.
‘Z.B.,’ he said.

Zaphod Beeblebrox, from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

phantasmic slit

07 Tuesday Nov 2017

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Guilt slit. Anxiety is one more queer

cesarean incision that will bear

me no child and will never heal. All fear

rests right here (between hip and hip) right there

(between south-kiss and fuzzed groin) Which chakra

do I need to drive a knife through to keep

myself from feeling this way? Since vodka

only blurs the pain and hash makes me sleep

without dreaming let me run fingernails

across my phantasmic slit; that which you

can’t see, what I always feel. Let me cut

this out of me; from hip to hip, a snail’s

trail that not even the gods can undo.

A slice, sacrifice, guilt rests in the gut.

ravenous

03 Friday Nov 2017

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The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.

colossus

02 Thursday Nov 2017

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First I took clay, breathed over it. In my mouth:
sand, storm, burning sky. Then I fashioned it,

beloved, into you and everywhere — south,
north, down, up — paused, listened to this misfit

magic. The breeze listened. The bread listened.
The knot listened. The dawn listened. Sun dawned.

I woke you up; painted your lips, crimsoned
your eye-holes. You blinked twice, sat up and yawned.

This is before the Bengal cat tail-plug
that you loved. Before you learned desire

and walked through this world like a colossus.
You were famished. You ate drug after drug;

all I had. That first trip you simply were,
beloved, all naked, divine, monstrous.

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rumi’s constant conversation

01 Wednesday Nov 2017

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Who is luckiest in this whole orchestra? The reed.

Its mouth touches your lips to learn music.

All reeds, sugarcane especially, think only

of this chance. They sway in the canebrake,

free in the many ways they dance.

Without you the instruments would die.

One sits close beside you. Another takes a long kiss.

The tambourine begs, Touch my skin so I can be myself.

Let me feel you enter each limb bone by bone,

that what died last night can be whole today.

Why live some soberer way and feel you ebbing out?

I won’t do it.

Either give me enough wine or leave me alone,

now that I know how it is

to be with you in a constant conversation.

— Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)