GNOSIS

21 Friday Jul 2017

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After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.

It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.

Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones

hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones

leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate

wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —

one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.

marimacho

19 Wednesday Jul 2017

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It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.

clutch

17 Monday Jul 2017

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Bedlam with seraph-fine fingers around
your throat. Less kiss, more like how the panicked

swimmer gasps water; anything but drown
into sea-blue bloat. Anything. You licked

the bit of knuckle that your tongue could reach.
Unlike the surf nothing pulled you under

save lust; your own tidal-flow on the beach,
my face in your flood. “I want your finger

down here.” There will be bruises tomorrow.
There is a ridge that my curved thumb can clutch.

Moon glow. Sea crust. The tide pulls out. A hiss
upon stones and you break from the shallow

water. You gasp, gag, recoil from my touch
and then sigh, pulling tight against my kiss.

Quote

quote unquote

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

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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

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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.