Tag Archives: cunnilingus

crosscut

28 Friday Jun 2019

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I could not sleep in such heat and what dream
came was no dream. Santísima Muerte

parted her robes to press her wet blaspheme,
as priests call all cunts, to my lips. Doomsday

tastes like death in heat. “Tu madre,” she said.
“Chinga tu madre.” Once lust couldn’t carve

through this thick air, couldn’t slash through what bled
from these lips. Have faith, you said. See? You starve.

Who has fed you like I do? — The riot
in your heart knows what you want. The chaos

that dreams of dissection loves you, too. Press
that blunt tongue here, in my groove, my crosscut.

Stroke, you woke with that taste; lust born from loss,
born from death, lovesick, lifting up her dress.

NOTES:
As a personification of death and guardian of marginalized people Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte (Our Lady of Holy Death) is a folk saint found in Mexico and Mexican-American Catholicism. Chinga tu madre is, of course, one of the few things Santísima Muerte (Most Holy Death) can get away with saying, since death is the mother of us all.

venus mound

25 Thursday Apr 2019

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“Only my ass, daddy, only my ass.”
We sat by the window in your grandma’s

attic attempting to clean all the grass
stains from where you knelt among the thistles

and weeds to take me down your throat. Playground
hookup, you called it. — On the attic floor,

on my back, you ground your round venus mound
against my face. I’d tongue-fuck your flushed core,

if I could. But as I press in you stop —
tell me, not in there. “Don’t make angels weep,”

the nun had warned. We won’t. Dried cum, like glue,
dots your face, while, “be bop a lu she bop,”

plays downstairs. As I bury myself deep
in your ass I think, “I barely know you.”

enough

14 Sunday Apr 2019

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, Potawatomi, sonnet, Translation

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Soft or hard, purple or brown, my mouth takes
it deep your tongue tongues it, crests it. Our lips

purse as we start to suck, as her cunt quakes
and salt droplets her skin. With acid trips,

frigatrix fingers and chronic, we shared
a bed and your sister’s ruined body —

cancer had left her rickety and scared.
Deep love requires desire. The three

of us odd things. You say orgasms must
be the cure. I say with enough pleasure

we will hold on. But love, debanawen,
even death, nbowen, is neither just

nor fair. It just is. Like how we kiss her.
We pass the bong. We do it again.

NOTE:
Today marks Week 2 in my studies of the Potawatomi language. I want to learn it because it is beautiful to my ear. My goal is to one day translate English and Spanish poetry into Potawatomi, to help expand its edges, to make this world a little more interesting to be in. That said I am going to be working on this project for a long time to come. I’m constantly getting my verb tenses mixed up, which is why this poem is using only simple nouns. Love, in Potawatomi, is, “Debanawen,” while Death is, “Nbowen.” I hope soon to be able to form more complex sentences in my sonnets but today I’m being kind to myself. I’m a slow learner.

jikʼeedgo

18 Monday Feb 2019

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Some sacred texts of smut are smooth as ash,
afterglow’s fire — lightning’s ozone — desert’s

rain. Some are scraggy. Your mom calls it trash.
The nuns call them sin. Holy acts of perverts:

-psycho- -porno- -jikʼeedgo- toothed and notched.
Certain words crack doors wide. Your butterfly

cacti knows this. So does moon blood. Debauched
flesh flow. Sticky chin. Certain words defy

grace and good taste. Words be nasty with want.
These are our myths. Our filth and bawdiness.

The chaste fear this. They are sick in their soul
without either consort and confidant.

We’re rough, we’re smooth, we burn like a furnace —
this makes us blessed, makes us love, makes us whole.

NOTE:
Jikʼeedgo translates into the act of fucking in the Navajo language (Diné bizaad).

crooked

16 Saturday Feb 2019

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When dark fell the dog recoiled in disgust
at the -scritch-scratch- outside of your window.

My voice, all curved ice thorn, called in a gust
of wind for you. The young village widow

and the vicar’s wife both said that I’m one
of the angels cast down in flames. I’ve hung

with Baal’s crew before. They’re dull. No passion.
Night-clad among dark trees give me your tongue.

Under dark skies I’ll bury jackal bones
in you, raise your petticoats, your hackles,

suck your clit dry. Starved thing, invite me in.
I know what lurks in your bones and hormones,

in the dark of your soul and the muscles
of your cunt. I know your crooked, lewd grin.

laid bare

11 Monday Feb 2019

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Cyclones and bones blown all pell-mell. Sky-bound,
umber dust lifts your heavy skirts — debauched

with rage, rushed with umbrage, with the crude sound
of storm of sex of my tongue in your notched

plash first gush and then whirl. The earth’s domain,
red gold, laid bare. Mixed with ache aren’t we all

peeled down. On the side of a side road. Rain
on the car’s hood. In the backseat I sprawl

inside you, slouching in your cunt-soaked heat.
Curved thighs crisscross my neck. Conjured hormones

from ghost meat and bones blown high from their graves.
The wind brings us red rock, ozone, heartbeat,

rage. Your clit trembles. It’s what the storm moans,
the gods hunger for, what the cyclone craves.

lure

04 Monday Feb 2019

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Poppy milk: in ill sleep you stood there: curved,
blithesome, cocky. To see you naked, once

more, I almost woke. You were so reserved
alive, it took laying down lip, essence

of moon rock, just to get you off. My brief
grief stayed, lasted — even as I tended

your grave. No one shall tend to mine. The Thief
of Seoul shares my bed now; but sugar-mud

isn’t the same, even among gods. For ache,
omen close to bliss, I keep hunting. “Hunt?

You mean cunt, you mean cock,” you said. I mean:
fear some dreams. I mean: from lust’s lure heartache.

Your night fever tightens around me. Blunt
ghost, you’re all nightmare, my milk’s morphine.

marrow

30 Wednesday Jan 2019

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If I do, what then? True, I’m a false saint
of sluice, of vacant stares, of these pain-drenched

bones that will heal your ills. Touch my pink taint
with your blue-ebony hue. Touch what quenched

you when I bent you double, flipped up your skirt
and ran my tongue down your cunt. Devotion

is for the upright. Why pray when you squirt
and flow just as hard on the floor? My fun,

my bad, my grace. Don’t trust me; my deceit
goes all cock-skunk in a cloister. Go pray,

be chaste. It’s just your soul at stake, princess,
pith and marrow. I’m damned like Lilith’s clit,

like your clit if you come to me and say,
“Save me,” if I nod: “So, it’s come to this.”

suckerish

13 Sunday Jan 2019

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You filled my mouth with copper, blood and brine.
Under your skirt, tongue in your moist split mound,

“t’avshya vosku hank’” — your velvet goldmine.
We’d been dancing, a waltz-grind. You had frowned

when the kissing stopped. Romance requires
restraint. Rise and fall of hips, amazing

pangs no nun ever warned about, desires
obscene. I didn’t notice how sopping

you had become until your thighs rested
on my neck. Gyumri is full of despised

daughters. I too am cast-off, suckerish
for the shamed. In with copper, brine and blood

I taste your mother-lode. Pleasure surprised
you. Your giggle was more than I could wish.

NOTE:
Gyumri is a city in northwestern Armenia where I lived for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer. Despite some progress in recent years women are still viewed as second-class citizens by many in that country. “T’avshya vosku hank’” (թավշյա ոսկու հանք) is the Armenian equivalent of “velvet goldmine,” Victorian slang for cunt.

mustachio

11 Friday Jan 2019

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Just now we shall have bit of snug bit
of sniff: get my nose in it, in you. Breast

bondage, tit torture: with wax, teeth and spit,
with cords holding you still. I am a guest

here. Ill and lewd we walked the spit of land
between the Eel River and ocean. Gulls

and sea lions basked. Beyond the low farmland:
redwoods. Once, buried up to my knuckles

in you, we hid near tide pools, the billow’s
roar, your hiss, your husband dozed, his bong cashed.

Under your shirt: last night I marked my greed
and need. Just now I lap your lips, your toes

curl, sand caked. I’m a bad friend, all mustached
in your pubes. We both count on that, indeed.