13 Monday May 2013
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on wet with rain
Tags
Այսպիսով, մենք ժամանել.
Բայերի.
Տարածումը ուրախություն.
Ձեր առաջին ճիչը.
Ձեր աշխատանքային բառերի.
Համբուրեց, ուտում են, սպառում.
Թավշյա ուրախություն, թաց, ինչպես անձրեւի տակ
.
So we arrived.
Verbs.
Spread the joy.
Your first cry.
You are the words.
Kissing, eating, consuming.
Velvet joy, wet with rain.
08 Monday Apr 2013
Posted in Armenian, Erotic, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ձեր երանության
Իմ լեզուն ներսում ձեր շուրթերը.
Ես խմել ձեր երանության.
Ձեր ձեռքը իմ գլխին.
.
My tongue inside your lips.
I drink your bliss.
Your hand on my head.
18 Monday Mar 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, lifetime of love, lithic muscles, Lucky Strike, Moroccan patterns, pubic hair, scar, sonnet, woman warrior
When I trace the scars on her shoulders, thick
as my finger, grotesque tattoos that wrap
around each arm. When I kiss her lithic
muscles she starts to tremble. She could snap
my spine like that. She has killed thirty men
like that. When I play with her softest part,
the part I will not name, her talismen
I call a lifetime of love, my sweetheart
opens. It’s not words but other’s secrets
that that I won’t share. When I light her lucky
strike she groans the earth before volcano’s
blow. She clamps my face in place; her ringlets
tease my nose. I love her, from her forty
broadsword strokes to each of her missing toes.
16 Saturday Mar 2013
Tags
cum, cunnilingus, dumb boy toy, fellatio, ghost lover, make me cum, sonnet
What I love, the ghost said, is the pure want,
the fire wet and humid, the flesh quaking.
Collapsing. Claw me. Tear me, she said, haunt
my cunt the way I still haunt your fucking
dreams. Thrill me. Kill me — heh, too late for that.
Fist me. Twist me. Fill me. I am rabid,
dripping toxic. You got blue balls? tomcat
blues. Catch me. Stretch me. My cum is acid.
It will eat through your cock. Burn your fingers.
Shake me. Break me. Soak me. Scare me — if you
can. If you can fuck, love. If you can suck
and spew. I am sticky greed. My horrors
will show you. Because you said that you knew.
Dumb boy toy. You told me that ghosts can’t fuck.
27 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet
Tags
a drowning child, China, cunnilingus, human sacrifice, mythology, orgasmo divino, sonnet, Wu, Yangtze river
This is a way of telling a story.
Wash it down your throat.
— Wong Amy, Narration
* * *
I knew a girl once, a farmer’s daughter
from Wu, who was married to the Great King
Yangtze. Yeah, that’s what they said to her,
as their sole explanation for drowning
her, one more sacrifice to the Yellow
River. One more River King’s Bride. Soggy,
I could taste in her kisses marsh gas, woe
and weeds. “There was no king,” she once told me.
“So I’m no bride.” On her face a smile brimmed,
swollen and in flood until I too drowned
as I went down between her thighs, her trimmed
black curls, her mons pubis, her venus mound
that made her rain cloud burst. I thank Eros
we met for death made these passions endless.
* * *
Notes:
Wu is a region of China near the mouth of the Yangtze river.
Historical records tell of the custom of sacrificing a young girl each year to the spirit of the Yangtze, a “bride” to the god of the Yellow river.
07 Thursday Feb 2013
Tags
amputee, Cambodia, Cambodian Mine Action Centre, cunnilingus, landmine, peace, silk stockings, sonnet
It was hard in the beginning, of course.
Getting her up, the feedings, the wipings.
“Let me die,” she’d beg me, full of remorse.
I don’t blame her. I bought her silk stockings
for her four stumps. She hated them, at first.
Three years after “it” happened she started
to smile. She stopped saying that she was cursed
on her sixteenth birthday. I french braided
her hair and we went everywhere. We’re fine
down in the stream near the village. She rests
in my embrace. Peace is being buoyant.
She still won’t talk about “it;” the landmine.
At night my tongue finds her, teasing her breasts,
her lips, her clit, with love, raw and urgent.
* * *
Note: after three decades of war Cambodia has well over 40,000 landmine amputees, 75% of which are children. In 2012, the Cambodian Mine Action Centre (CMAC) estimated that there might be as many as four to six million mines and other pieces of unexploded ordnance still unaccounted for in rural Cambodia.
04 Monday Feb 2013
Tags
cunnilingus, metaphor, P-Funk, pubic hair, Shakespeare, sonnet, sweet-bottom grass, up on the downstroke
There is enough sweet bottom-grass around
this, your pleasant fountain, to keep me drunk
all day. Some eat to excess. I have drowned
in my own swampy needs, in others’ spunk,
as if cum were a rare commodity.
When I’m in collar and chains I will lick
it all up. When you show me your country
life, I delight in your porn and chronic.
I get grave stone in your sweet bottom-grass.
I stay down for days. But what sort of seed
does one need to plant where wild sassafras
grows wild on your clit? — all goo and honeyed.
There’s no seed. Just tongue up on the downstroke,
drowning, swallowing you until I choke.
20 Sunday Jan 2013
Tags
bisexual, cruising, cunnilingus, drunk on spunk, Edward the Dyke, Judy Grahn, Liliti, mythology, sonnet, strap-on sister, the first exile
“I’m not a good lay/ I’m a straight razor,”
Judy Grahn, “Edward the Dyke”
There was no grief. The summer radio
played “you can have my husband/ but don’t mess
with my woman” all day long. Your afro
gleamed as we cruised in your Austin Princess
downtown. Playtime approached. After playtime
came dawn. Dusk and dawn. But you, drunk on spunk,
the first exile, loved love during wartime,
with your kerosene myth, junk in your trunk
and duck’s arse cut. Girls called you Liliti;
I called you my “mama-jan;” my surreal
strap-on sister. My roots and the orgy
where I was conceived. One hand on the wheel
while your other played with my head between
your thighs, licking your clit stiff and obscene.
15 Tuesday Jan 2013
Posted in video
≈ Comments Off on denise lasalle’s “lick it before you stick it”
Tags
this song is dedicated to all the men out there
who don’t seem to know how to keep their woman happy
i want y’all to take a little listen
see if you want to … try thissome men think that the height of woman’s pleasure
is when he’s kissing her on her lips
and some men think that the joy of foreplay
is caressing with his fingertips
and some men think a little titty kissing
is the answer to every women’s dream
but let me tell ya how to kiss her
if you really want to hear her screamyou’re making her feel good,
but you can make her feel better
if you treat your lady
like a stamp and a letterlick it, before you stick it (x4)
now all you fellows
sitting there laughing
let me tell you this no stage joke
(she ain’t playin’)
if you really want to please her
just find that little man in the boat
you can tease it, gently squeeze it,
message it with your fingertips
but sorry fellas, the job ain’t over
until you take it between your lipsyou’re making her feel good,
but you can make her feel better
if you treat your lady
like a stamp and a letterlick it, before you stick it (x4)
now some men think a little titty kissing
is the answer to every women’s dream
but let me tell ya how to kiss her
if you really want to hear her screamyou’re making her feel good,
but you can make her feel better
if you treat your lady
like a stamp and a letterlick it, before you stick it (x16)
haha, the fellas got it
now girls you can’t stick it
but you sure can lick it
13 Sunday Jan 2013
There are two scars on the dead woman’s breasts
but when I run my finger over them
she mews, shivers and turns away. Our chests
soon touch and she pushes her need and phlegm,
a stub of a blue tongue, into my mouth.
Love should come with no strings or not at all.
When I move between her thighs, “go down south,
Moses,” I can taste on her clit the gall
of the methanol used in embalming.
There is a science to all this, I know.
A dark science. I treasure that second
when she climaxed, laughing and crying,
when the dead discovered lust once more
and our understanding of love deepened.
memories of my ghost sista 