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How is it that strangers now look at me and say, “you must be cruel in bed”? What changed in my eyes to give them that impression? How do I now hold my face that I didn’t before? Why am I now self-conscious about the jutting of my hips when I stand close? I don’t think I’m a rageful soul, the way angry men I meet keep their fury buried deep in their fingernails; but I keep looking at you and thinking about what a good and glorious great joy it would be to stormily break you slow, ride you down, lead you through wildfire so that I could stand with you on the other side of pain.

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THREE VARIATIONS ON DESIRE’S ALPHABET

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inanotherdirection:

“How many licks” – Lil Kim

I need a new word. The ancient mothers had tongue,

but I’ve lost how to read. The Chinese call it, “Tian yin.”

The Greeks, “Aidoioleixia.” The Welsh, “Gweinlyfu.”

The Tamil, “Vay neṟikkoṇam.” The Nepali,

“Yoni mukhamaithuna.” But for the rest of the world

it is simply “Cunnilingus,” or “Kunilengus,” or

“Cunnilingio.” It sounds like a medical term. The fruit from

the Tree of Diana would never taste like how that word sounds.

The Mystery is there, on the tip of our tongues, I can

almost hear the proper words, like trying to decipher

the chaos as the Goddess of the Hunt brings down the old boar;

at the climax we all make noise that sounds like sacrament.

][

“… how summer learns to end.” – etherlighter

Mother Lilith, progenitor, what breeds

deeper disquiet in the human heart

than this celibacy that only bleeds

the soul of ecstasy, sets us apart

from the Divine? Debauchery, speaking

in tongues, music: they hold truths and secrets

that the piety of silence, lacking

epiphany, can’t find. When you say, “sluts

and whores,” you speak of prophets. We all die,

Lilith, but not all of us have to numb

our souls first. First Mother, First Wife;

let the world burn, even Augustine’s lie.

Orgasm: it’s the closest that we’ll come

to the Divine in this short, little life.

][

Babylon, man-child,

grow up, there is

more to riding off

on a foamy white

horse, a jism of

release, never to

return, the patriarch

will fall for he is

blind, somewhere

in Rome hidden

from view rests

Saint Hripsime’s chemise,

made of sackcloth,

which rubbed her

right there when

she walked, for even

martyrs are full

of desire, much

like in Boccaccio’s

Decameron, in

the first story of the

third day when Masetto

becomes a gardener,

who “tills the soil

and makes barren

plots fertile,” discreet

easing of the pangs of

lust among the bold

sisters and abbess

and though Hripsime

was a virgin Pier

Paolo Pasolini showed

us how Christ treats

those who put horns

on his crown, they are

the true

children of heaven.

[submitted by ghostsista]

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ghostsista:

The tiles were so cold — You wanted torment,
like how god-dogs do it. Your muscles clenched

under your jeans. You’ve walked around, hellbent
that none of your friends would notice the drenched

little patch, the buzz of your discipline
implemented deep between your cheeks. You

peel down your jeans like you peel skin
down bone, down muscle. At each corkscrew

twist lick squeeze the silicon hammer’s head
spreads you wider. We two lay on the floor

of your mom’s bathroom — The acid hitting
just then. “Yeah, leck it. Me clit is blood-red.

Me arse — O! ahm a god! ahm a doog! Mooar!”
Torment, you had called it. Your toes, curling.

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gosto [taste]

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ghostsista:

TASTE

Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.

Throbbing fruit
fresh. My mouth

on your skin. A light kiss
with the touch

of the tongue.
Suck your

fruit; with a grip,
howling, and hair

pulling. Strange
fruit.

][][

GOSTO

Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.

Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha boca

na teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toque

da língua.
Chupo teu

fruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxão

de cabelo. Fruto
estranho.

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These poems are in the tradition “negative ecstasy,” a philosophy that the poet is nothing more than a void: in order to create, the poet requires a willing release of the ego and self, which in turn allows the poet’s void to be filled with the verse.  It is similar to what the Buddhists call  “no mind,” a method used so that works, ideas and even lives that once appeared as  imperfect or failures were, by their very nature, simply unfinished acts.   The process was comparable to what Keats described as “being in uncertainties … without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” It was this viewpoint, inquiring into  the metaphysics of “failure,” that brought forth the ability to contemplate the two key themes of these poems: “La morte et Eros” – desire and death and their contrasting forces.