The dust of many strange desires
Lies deep between us …
A.C. Swinburne, from Felise.
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17 Monday Jul 2017
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17 Monday Jul 2017
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I’ll drain him dry as hay.
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid.
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary sev’n nights, nine times nine,
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine.
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tossed …
First Witch, Macbeth.
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17 Monday Jul 2017
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Still baffled, and yet burning still …
Desire with loathing strangely mixed
On wild or hateful objects fixed.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from The Pains of Sleep.
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17 Monday Jul 2017
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Ամէն ատեն, գիշեր ու ցերեկ, գերեզմաններուն եւ լեռներուն մէջ՝՝ կ՚աղաղակէր, ու իր մարմինը կը ճեղքռտէր քարերով:
Always in the night and day, among the tombs and in the mountains, he kept howling and cutting himself with stones.
Mark 5:5, Armenian NT
on your knees
15 Saturday Jul 2017
Tags
dying gods, erotic poetry, four-fingered thumb, Lilith's gift to Adam, pain gives me freedom, sonnet
When pulled out the plug left a hole that gaped.
It had been twisted — into the deeper
niche of your nether regions — I had taped
down the battery wire to your inner
thigh, set the vibrator to vex and ire
and left you, as you had asked, fidgeting
all day long. Some of us get desire,
some can only give. There are gods, dying,
who get prayed to less. This four-fingered thumb
can plug, but not with the current that ran
through you. I found you, later, on your knees.
Lilith’s blood. “This pain will give me freedom,”
you moaned as I took the plug in one hand
and pulled amid your prayers and pleas.
welt
12 Wednesday Jul 2017
Tags
8 inches, anal plug, erotic poem, pelvis grinding, ravish, sonnet, spastic, twelve obscene strokes, welt
I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-
Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish
Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.
Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;
mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches
inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow
all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.
throwing shade
06 Thursday Jul 2017
Breathe on your neck and your hairs stand erect.
You are wet like moss dribbling on rock
with kick-boots, leather jacket, dawn’s mohawk.
I love your brawn, the strength that you project.
You are thick in every way that I’m plump.
I drag your knife across my shoulder blade
and all my pale flesh opens. You throw shade
better than my friends. I’m all sad thighs, rump
and queer bulges, yet still I bleed. I gag
you, face-fucking your skull until we choke
and say this is shit. We laugh. It’s all shit
that we drown in spliff. We’re called dyke and fag,
Hera’s bum-boys. I love you. There’s pale smoke
between us — drifting up — into orbit.
gash and harvest
04 Tuesday Jul 2017
Tags
Cum and conjure, erotic art, Fóllame el culo, fuck me in the ass, gash and harvest, hashish, poem, Poetry, sonnet
At first thrust you gasped; cello’s tight sinew
snapping as you opened up, your haunches
splayed, your fingers in the grass, then you drew
your head back, whiplash, and begged with curses,
“¡fóllame el culo!” You made an awed
pucker at either end, a mewl and grunt
into a whine, as the curved bow seesawed
inside you. I named gods (manic, urgent)
who lived for this. What else was there? Later
we curled, sucked from the hookah. Opium
imbued the air. We could’ve been a prayer
to an old life, old death. Cum and conjure.
Gash and harvest. Suture and orgasm.
Instead we’re what the gods left out: horror.
][][
note:
In Spanish, “Fóllame el culo,” translates into, “Fuck my ass.” Of all the instruments that I will never learn how to play the cello is what I set my words to.
except need
16 Friday Jun 2017
A beat oozes from somewhere deep below
me. It’s the rattle of the fan. The squeaks
that the floor makes. The day’s heat, all day-glo,
neon green, waves filtering up in streaks,
halos. I feel it when I press my cheek
against the warped wood; a beat totally
alien to my own heart. A wild shriek
of drums when drums shriek. What debauchery
isn’t kinship to such noise? That riot
of want that has no language except need.
I hear it, barely. All that you call smut
I call prayer. All that is green and honeyed.
All prayer is need. I bend down to the floor.
I need more than this queer beat. I need more.
stand
14 Wednesday Jun 2017
Give me the narcotics; all this morning
these gin tonics don’t do much. Someone, please,
said the fly to the spider with its sting
and long leer. When did I become a tease
to all that tried to help me? Why am I
the one who can’t take friendships easily?
Outside the mud swallow and magpie
fly by my window. There’s something haughty
about my last stand. This is all in flux,
everything smears, everything is a mess
across my face and yet somehow I must
keep calm. It’s a stand; yet roses, lilacs
and the ash can’t help me with my distress.
I don’t want intoxication … just trust.
memories of my ghost sista 