from between your thighs
lovely milk-mustache
6-word story
09 Thursday Nov 2017
Posted in Poetry, quote unquote
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09 Thursday Nov 2017
Posted in Poetry, quote unquote
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from between your thighs
lovely milk-mustache
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.
07 Tuesday Nov 2017
Tags
anxiety, depression, guilt slit, phantasmic slit, poem, Poetry, sacrifice, sonnet
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.
03 Friday Nov 2017
Tags
erotic poetry, masturbation, orgasm, petite morte, ravenous, ravenous depravity, sonnet, The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels of Cunnilingus, The Book of Misfits, why can't masturbation be a solution
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.
02 Thursday Nov 2017
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.
01 Wednesday Nov 2017
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Tags
Coleman Barks, constant conversation, erotica, metaphyics, quote unquote, Rumi, Touch my skin so I can be myself
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)
01 Wednesday Nov 2017
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I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life.Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let’s buy!
— Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)
01 Wednesday Nov 2017
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If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this.
If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this.
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.
How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.
How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us
Like this.
— Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)
01 Wednesday Nov 2017
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Tags
glottal stop, metaphyics, paul celan, poem, Poetry, quote unquote
with wine and being lost, with
less and less of both:I rode through the snow, do you read me,
I rode God far—I rode God
near, he sang,
it was
our last ride over
the hurdled humans.They cowered when
they heard us
overhead, they
wrote, they
lied our neighing
into one of their
image-ridden languages.
01 Wednesday Nov 2017
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Tags
blast of love, metaphyics, poem, Poetry, Sappho, willis barnstone
Like a mountain whirlwind
punishing the oak trees,
love shattered my heart.
Sappho (translated by Willis Barnstone)