03 Thursday Jan 2013
Posted in Erotic, Passings and Death Notes, Poetry
≈ Comments Off on zerachiel, mi amor
13 Thursday Sep 2012
Posted in Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ambas cosas son ciertas
Tags
Ayer me escribió, “La punta
de tu polla apuntando al cielo,
hinchado, largo y oscuro.
Algunos pueden llamar a esta obsceno.
Yo lo llamo oración.” Hoy escribo,
“Las puntas de tus pechos apuntando
al cielo, hinchado, largo y oscuro.
Algunos pueden llamar a esta obsceno.
Yo lo llamo oración.” Ambas
cosas son ciertas.
(Yesterday I wrote, “The tip of your cock pointing to the sky, puffy, long and dark. Some may call this obscene. I call it prayer.” Today I write, “The tips of your breasts pointing to the sky, puffy, long and dark. Some may call this obscene. I call it prayer.” Both are true.)
25 Monday Jun 2012
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Celtic, cock, eel, mythology, Neptune, sea, seal's bride, selkie, sex-starved, siren, Skerries beg, smut, sonnet, swim suit, tongue, urchin
Take me down in a tidal pool; swimsuit
around my knees. “Skerries beg/ the seal’s
bride,” we once sang. I am Neptune’s child: mute,
dark-eyed, insatiable. I sing the eel’s
want, the urchin’s need. I know of the sin
that can only be found under the moon,
down at ebb time’s tide. Take me; make my chin
slick from your spray. Even sex-starved Neptune
found joy sitting on the sand and dreaming
of what lay below. We are all sex-starved.
Let the great, gray seal colony — crying,
“lick me, lick me” — cry. I love a myth carved
into shifting sand; obscure and far-flung.
I love the selkie’s cock, the siren’s tongue.
16 Monday Apr 2012
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bucktooth fangs, burning cheeks, cock, cunt, curves, sex demon, sonnet, wings
Demons do all look alike. They are round
with wings and burning cheeks. I love bucktooth
fangs, scholars and poets all, those hellhound
coke-heads, all my dead friends with a sweet tooth
for flesh. The heavens were made in sevens
and I fuck in threes. Water still burns nerves
whose one duty is to delight. Demons
do all look alike; the way that the curves
and lines in cocks and cunts blur together,
if you’ve been with enough. If you haven’t:
‘ello, virgin. There’s a reason spirits
shun you. Like how I shun burning water
and the living. We love all wet, mutant
lovers; hellhound fucks; dead coke-head poets.
02 Friday Mar 2012
Note: As a hospice nurse I spend much of my time taking care of those who are about to pass over into whatever it is that waits for us when we are no longer alive. The Mystery, as they say. The Romantic poet John Keats called it his Darkling, as in “speak darkling, I listen.” Personally I have no idea what to make of death, other than that, like puberty, it’ll probably change everything. Then, again, maybe not. I’ve always been fond of the fairy tales about ghost lovers, when things like pregnancies and STDs and all the mundane problems of sex have been solved and all you need to do is haunt the bedroom of your beloved because for all of us there are somethings worth coming back for.
* * *
“When you’re dead, you’ll regret not
having fun with your genital organs.”
— Joe Orton’s diary, 23 July, 1967.
Don’t waste this life, darkling. When I’m all ghost
I will spend my time watching you undress.
The dead are voyeurs. Perverts. They are host
to a thousand lusts they cannot possess,
like me. Like a chaste nun who masturbates
in the after-life. We all make amends.
My dark one; he said, “She who menstruates
is now unclean.” “She who hungers, offends.”
That’s an infidel talking. He who “Scorns
the gift of divine orgasm” deserves
to be a cuckold. Billy-goat rough. Horns
to the devil. We are prophets of curves
and cocks, clits and cum. All sex is sacred.
Why wait til I’m dead to see you naked?
27 Tuesday Apr 2010
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